To Mend Icarus
by AlessNox
Summary: After a case lands John Watson in court, he tells Sherlock that he is leaving. Not understanding why, Sherlock decides that the only way to learn the truth is to investigate his flatmate, Dr. John Watson. A revision of the story Mending Icarus.
1. Killer or Hero

From the balcony of the crowded courtroom, Sherlock Holmes stared down at John Watson as he took the stand. The judge, bailiff and barristers in full court dress was a far cry from the simple inquest that Lestrade had promised. The ornate carving above the judges stand and the polished wooden tables reminded him of the last time that they had been in court together. Then their positions had been reversed. He had stood in the witness stand trying and failing to get Moriarty sent to prison, now, the stakes were even higher because it was John who stood accused, and Sherlock's last experience had not left him with the best impression of the court system.

"I do solemnly, sincerely and truly declare and affirm that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth," John said standing unconsciously in a posture of attention. A holdover, no doubt, from his military days that betrayed how tense he must feel, despite the relaxed sound of his voice. His short brown suit was of an older cut, but it was well-pressed and he wore it with military neatness that, along with his short hair, added to the impression that he was in uniform.

The black-robed barrister glanced quickly around the courtroom making the tail of his white horsehair wig swing. His hands grasped the sides of his robe as he spoke, "Would you please be so kind as to state your full name for the court."

"Doctor John Hamish Watson."

"Doctor Watson, can you please recount for us the events that happened on the afternoon of the sixth starting from when you first entered the bank?"

"Yes sir. We entered the bank to retrieve a clock from a safety deposit box..."

"We? Define 'we'."

"I meant my colleague, Sherlock Holmes, and myself. We are consulting detectives. Well, he is ...we were working on a case."

"Please tell us what happened after you entered the bank?"

John pulled in his chin and looked down, pursing his lips in that familiar way that he did when he was working himself up to start a big task. He lifted his head and began. "At first it was as you would expect. We queued up with the other people in the lobby to wait for our turn."

"How many people do you estimate were in the lobby at the time?"

"Thirty seven, not counting the bank staff."

"You know this exactly, how?"

"I counted, once the commotion started. It's a habit of mine to size up the odds. I suppose from my army days."

"I see...go on..."

"For about five minutes, nothing out of the ordinary happened, then Sherlock tugged my arm and pointed out three suspicious men who had just entered the lobby."

"Pointed them out? Why? What was suspicious about them?"

"They were wearing identical long coats with hoods that concealed their eyes from the security cameras. They were milling about and not queuing, and two of them had their hands concealed in their coats. They also walked like they were preparing for trouble. They were covering each other. I've done enough of it to know what that looks like. We were just commenting on it, when one of them pulled a rifle out of his coat and shot the ceiling. Then they pulled masks down over their faces and yelled at us all to get on the ground.

"And what did you do?"

"We squatted down on the ground. The security guard moved toward them, and one of the men shot him in the chest with a pistol."

"You said _'one of the men' _shot him. Do you mean Mr Johnson, the man in this photograph?"

"Yes, that's the one."

"Your honor!" The prosecuting barrister said rising to her feet, "Doctor Watson has said that the men were wearing masks, and yet he states that it is Mr Johnson who shot the guard. How does he know that for certain?"

"Yes, Doctor Watson?" The judge asked, "Why do you say that Mr Johnson shot the guard?"

John turned toward the judge as he answered, "Sir, I got a look at them before they put on their masks, and after...after it was all over, Sher... Mr. Holmes took off the mask, and I saw his face."

"If it please the court," the defending barrister said, "I would like to continue my line of questioning."

"Of course, Mr. McCartney," the judge said waving his sleeve.

"And what did you do after the guard was shot, Doctor?"

"I tried to help, but ... Mr Holmes held me back, and when I looked again, I realized that the man was already dead: Straight shot, mid-sternum, severe cardiac damage, collapsed lung, no signs of respiration."

"Please continue."

"I could see that Mr Johnson was the the leader. He said that if anyone else moved they would be shot, and he directed one of the others to get the money. Then he took a woman from the crowd and put a pistol to her head."

"So, Doctor Watson, did you feel that the woman was in mortal danger, that Mr. Johnson intended to kill her?"

_"Leading," _Sherlock thought, and the prosecutor rose to her feet again.

"I object! That question is entirely speculative. Whether or not Mr Johnson _intended_ to kill the witness is not something that could be observed."

"Quite right," The judge said, "Mr McCarthy, please restrict your questions to those things that the witness directly observed. This is no place for conjecture."

"Yes, your honor," The barrister said. "Then tell us, what was your assessment of the situation?"

John looked down at the floor. Sherlock could tell that he was reviewing the scene in his mind. He spoke in a calm, precise voice as if he were giving a military report. "We had a number of civilians in peril. Three armed hostiles. A hostage with a gun to her head and one guard dead. Yes, I believed that the woman was in mortal peril. We were all in peril."

_Sherlock remembered it vividly. The middle aged woman in the brown dress. Hair recently died blond to hide grey roots. Only recently a grandmother. Come to the bank to take out money for a baby gift no doubt. Low, sensible heels. Old wedding ring, well looked after. She squealed when he pulled her from the crowd wrapping his arm around her neck and placing the gun to her head. She was scared half to death. This was certainly not what she had expected from her trip to the bank that day. Banks were usually safe places with guards, like the one on the floor dead. She walked on tip-toe when he pulled her toward the teller station, her mouth shuddering in fear, her eyes tearing up, but she sucked in her breath when he threatened to kill her if she didn't stop blubbering._

"One of the men handed a bag to the bank teller," John said.

Sherlock gazed at John's hands. His right hand was resting lightly on the wooden railing, but his left was clutched stiffly to his side._ The same way he had clutched it that day when they had crouched at the back of the crowd watching the man drag the woman across the floor. Sherlock had needed to put a hand on his shoulder to keep John from rising to his feet. Brave, valiant, reckless John who would have charged out there to save the damsel in distress without a moment's thought if he hadn't been there to remind him to think first._

_"I've texted Lestrade. The police are on their way," Sherlock said in a whisper touching the inside of John's elbow with his fingertips in order to gauge his actions by the tightness of his bicep._

_"I don't know if that hostage will survive till then," John had said. "Do you see the way that man is waving the gun. The safety is off. It could go off any minute."_

_"Quiet over there, I said quiet!" The gunman demanded waving his gun carelessly toward the cowering people. He pulled his arm a little more tightly around the neck of his hostage, and John's eyes narrowed. The muscle became taut and his shoulders were very still. He looked like a tiger ready to strike. Sherlock gave him a worried glance._

_"They'll kill her before then," he whispered, "We've got to do something."_

_"I'll try to distract them," Sherlock said, "You get near the hostage and wait for my signal."_

_John nodded, and Sherlock sighed with relief before lowering himself to the floor and crawling behind the line of crouching people until he was shielded by a desk. He needed to find a way to distract the gunmen, but the solution wasn't forthcoming._

_He watched as John slowly crept forward, pushing himself to the front of the crowd of people. They let him pass through easily, eager to have someone else between them and the gunman who pointed his gun toward the crowd every time that he heard a threatening noise._

_Sherlock's eyes were fixed on John. What should he do? He could put out the lights, but there was ample lights from the windows. He could set off the fire alarm, but the men were jumpy. They might shoot the woman in surprise. He needed to distract them in a way that they would not see as a threat. Of course, that would most likely result in being taken as a hostage himself. _

_John was moving closer to the gunman. Pushing himself forward in a way that would soon be noticed. He could tell that John had no intention of waiting for Lestrade to solve the problem. That stupidly brave man was going to get himself killed. _

"What happened next?" The barrister asked.

"The woman was about to faint. She was blinking frequently, and I could see her knees begin to buckle. The stress was too much for her. Mr Johnson told her to stand up. He said that if she fell he would put a bullet in her where she lay. That there were plenty of other hostages. That was no way to talk to a person going into shock. It just made things worse. Her knees gave out, and she fell to the ground. He aimed toward her. That's when I acted."

_The woman was blinking rapidly. Trying and failing to keep herself from passing out, but It was John that he had been worried about. He had tunnel vision. He was focused so tightly on the gunman that he wasn't watching the other two men who could so easily turn and shoot him. The woman fell then, and he could see John about to strike, so he stood up where he was and raised his hand. "Excuse me!" Sherlock cried, "But I need to get into my safe deposit box now."_

_As a group, the gunmen turned their eyes toward him, so they didn't notice as John sprang from the crowd hitting their leader square in the chest. Sherlock ran forward. The masked man nearest to him froze for a moment before remembering to lift his rifle. Sherlock disarmed the man, using the butt of the rifle to knock him to the ground. It took three hits to the head to incapacitate him. That's when he heard the gunshot and he thought for a moment that John might be dead. _

___Time had never seemed to pass so slowly._ It seemed to take forever to whip his head around. Then he saw it all at once: John wresting over the gun, the woman collapsed at their feet, the man standing at the teller's counter falling backwards as if in slow motion, the teller's shrill shriek. 

_John had his left hand on the gun. His fingers were pressed over those of the other man who stood chest to chest with him despite the fact that John was half a head shorter. Both of their fingers were on the trigger, and John was looking over his shoulder, his eyes sighting down the barrel of the pistol. _

_Anyone else would have called it an accident or even chance, but Sherlock knew better. John preferred to be praised for his surgical skill, but his aim was unerringly accurate. It was not chance that the trigger was pulled just as it passed over the robber's heart. John's left hand was his dominant one and his eye was on the barrel. The other man had been looking away._

"What did you do, Doctor Watson?"

"I tried to disarm the man. We fought over the gun. It went off as we fought."

"That was the bullet that killed Jeremy Rodan."

"Yes sir."

"Whose hand was on the trigger?"

"Both of ours. We were fighting over the gun."

"And what happened afterward?"

"I was able to disarm him with a chop to the wrist. Then I pushed him up against the wall and immobilized him until the police could arrive."

"Thank you so much, Doctor Watson," he said, and the defense barrister sat down.

The prosecuting barrister was a tall, thin young woman. She wore small silver spectacles that slid to the tip of her nose which, combined with the curly white wig, gave her the impression of a stern old grammar teacher. "Doctor Watson, you were a captain in the RAMC is that so?"

"Yes Maam."

"Can you tell us why you were discharged?"

"I was wounded in action."

"And is it true that you suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder?"

The defense barrister stood, "Your honor, I fail to see how this line of questioning has any bearing on the case at hand."

"I plan to show that it does, your honor," she said.

"I think that we can let Mrs Tinsdale continue her case, Mr McCarthy," the Judge said.

She continued, "Please answer the question, Doctor Watson. Do you have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder?"

"I was diagnosed with it, yes." John said. "I don't necessarily agree with the diagnosis."

"But you were given that diagnosis by a licensed psychiatrist?"

"Yes."

"You said that you 'immobilized' Mr Johnson. How did you do it?"

"I pressed him up against the wall with a hand to his throat."

"Did he struggle?"

"At first. He stopped after a while."

"And yet, you kept your hand to his throat after he stopped struggling."

"Yes."

"And after he had stopped struggling, was he still a threat to you then?"

Mr McCartney rose to his feet, "My lord, now it is Mrs Tinsdale who is asking the witness to speculate."

"Mrs Tinsdale, please keep your questions to matters of fact not opinion," the judge said.

"Your pardon. Then let us speak of facts. Did you, Doctor Watson, as witnesses have said, hold Mr Johnson up against the wall by his neck with his feet off of the floor?"

"I suppose so."

"And is it true that when you released him, he was unconscious?"

"Yes."

"Your honor, I would like to submit for your attention exhibit one, the medical report for Mr. Raymond Johnson. The report states that his hyoid bone was fractured in the attack. He suffered loss of oxygen that led to unconsciousness and may result in permanent brain damage. Doctor Watson, could it be that you were using inappropriate force under the influence of post traumatic stress disorder?"

" My Lord, Doctor Watson can not possibly make such an assessment on himself."

"Then let me ask it this way," she said. "As a doctor and a former soldier, did you know that such an outcome was possible? Did you know that your actions might result in brain damage or even the death of Mr. Johnson?"

"I did know that it was possible, yes, but at the time I was simply trying to stop him."

"Thank you, Doctor Watson. That will be all."

The prosecuting barrister sat, and John was ushered out of the witness box. He sat on a bench next to his solicitor who leaned over to whisper in his ear. How Sherlock wished that he had been allowed to keep his phone so that he could send him a text. As it was, John sat quietly staring forward never turning to catch his eye.

_Was it PTSD? He didn't think so. PTSD was what woke John at night all covered with sweat, crying out to someone, God perhaps, to save him. In the bank, he hadn't been crying. His teeth were gritted in an expression of fury, or was it joy?_

_Once the gunman was disarmed, he seemed to have lost his spark. John pushed him across the room until his back hit the wall. Then he placed his hands over the man's throat. The man tried to speak but all that came out was a whine as John's fingers tightened. His eyes widened in fear before he passed out. John kept holding onto his throat. _

_Sherlock went to him then. He'd placed a hand on his shoulder and called his name, "John," only to be whirled around and flung to the ground. He looked up to see that same expression staring down at him. His teeth were clenched so tightly that he was almost grinning as he grabbed the edges of Sherlock's scarf and pulled tightly. _

_Sherlock had gasped, unable to get sound out of his throat. Then John's eyes had changed and he had dropped the scarf, reaching out to loosen the clothing around Sherlock's neck. His mouth open in horror._

_Sherlock had been concentrating on his own breathing, so he did not remark on the pair of sudden indrawn breaths that John made as he leaned back, or the way John's hands had shook as he dropped down on his heels. Sherlock sat up rubbing his neck as the sound of sirens flooded the room. A face peered through the glass door before a host of policemen with riot shields rushed in._

_They ran through the lobby surrounding everyone and training weapons on the fallen robbers. Then someone walked over and stood beside him, stretching out a hand to help him up. "A little late for the party," Lestrade had said. "Nothing to do now but sweep up. This your handiwork?" he had asked Sherlock._

_"Mostly it's, John's," he had said. "Always one for the heroics, John."_

_"I can't say that I mind," Lestrade replied, "John, are you okay? It's just you look a bit out of sorts. Let me call a medic."_

_"I'm fine, I'm fine," John had said, but in retrospect, Sherlock realized, that he hadn't looked fine._

Waiting for the verdict was the hardest part. As Sherlock looked around the room, he recognized many of the people who had been in the bank on that day: The teller was here, as was the hostage sitting next to her husband. Matching rings. Happily married for twenty plus years, how rare. There were others here as well. Sarah in a boring white blouse, and Lestrade.

The door opened, and the Judge came into the room as a voice rang out the words, "Be upstanding!" Everyone stood.

John rose to his feet slowly, turning his head to the side so that Sherlock could catch a glimpse his emotionless face. Then John glanced back toward the stands. Sherlock caught his eye and smiled. John frowned then, but Sherlock could tell that he only did it to hold back a smile. When Sherlock looked up again, the judge was reading the decision.

"In light of the evidence of numerous witnesses at the scene of the crime, and given the fact that there was a clear danger to all involved, Dr. John H. Watson is cleared of all charges. You are free to go." The gavel pounded, and pleased sounds escaped from the audience. As John walked through the courtroom, a number of people rushed up to shake his hand. Sherlock hurried down the stairs catching up with John just as he passed through the doorway.

John walked rapidly, outpacing his solicitor who fell behind. Sherlock rushed up alongside him, opening the door for John as he passed out of the courthouse, and into the sunlight.

As they walked down the courthouse steps toward one of Mycroft's waiting cars, reporters rushed forward and snapped John's picture. Sherlock stood behind him then, only stepping forward to open the door of the car before they were whisked away back to Baker street.

"Now who's the famous one?" Sherlock said smiling. John didn't answer. He sat sullenly looking down at his hands, his mouth held in a straight line. When they got home he went straight to his room rudely ignoring Mrs Hudson's burst of confetti in celebration at his entrance.

The next day, John stayed home. Sherlock spent most of the day at the morgue working on a theory he had about garroting. It was the second day after the trial, when things finally seemed to be back to normal, that it all changed.

Sherlock and John sat at the table eating breakfast. Sherlock opened the paper to see John's face. "Seems you're the star of yet another edition," he said. "Bank hero acquitted. You're quite the celebrity. And it seems the gunman will survive to stand trial. He's still in hospital though. Minor brain damage. That's quite a skill you have, John. I still have the marks on my neck."

"Sherlock!" John said his eyes sharp his voice firm. "I have something I need to talk to you about."

Sherlock put down the paper and looked at John's serious expression. "What is it, John?"

John licked his lips and looking straight into Sherlock's eyes he said, "I'm moving out."


	2. Her

Sherlock sat forward in his chair and stared at John. "Why?" Sherlock asked, "Why are you moving out? And why now?"

John looked into Sherlock's eyes and then turned away. "I just...need ... space. Does a man need a reason to go where he wants to? I'm just giving you fair warning, that's all. I plan to move by the end of the month." John rose from his chair and walked out of the kitchen.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock walked into the living room to find John in his chair reading a book. He glared down at him. "Yes," Sherlock said.

"Yes what?" John asked.

"Yes to your question_. 'Does a man need a reason to go where he wants?'_ The answer is_ 'Yes, he needs a reason.' _We are reasoning, thinking organisms. One does not simply change to a new domicile without a reason. It's not logical."

"I'm sorry that you feel that way, Sherlock, but my mind is made up."

"But why?" Sherlock asked, "You never showed any dissatisfaction with our living arrangements before. It certainly can't be due to anything I've done."

John let out an astonished sigh, "You know, Sherlock, despite what you may have forgotten about astronomy, you are not the center of the universe. I do have motivations of my own sometimes that have nothing to do with you."

Sherlock tilted his head, considering. "No, I don't think so. I haven't changed any of my actions so it has to be you. Ah! I see," Sherlock said leaping forward to grasp the arm of John's chair., "This is a joke, correct? You were telling me that I needed to get a sense of humor after we watched that Grail movie."

"No Sherlock, I'm not joking."

"Then is it a threat for the sake of renegotiating terms? I'm sorry John, but you already agreed to buy the milk."

John smiled, "No. Nothing like that. I'm sorry if this inconveniences you," John said, "I'll give Mrs. Hudson my last month's rent when I get back. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going out."

John put down the book and rose from the chair. He walked over to the coat rack and put on his jacket before pattering down the stairs. Sherlock stared after him, listening as the front door closed behind him, then he steepled his hands.

_John leaving? It makes no sense. Have I said anything, done anything different today than yesterday? No, nothing. There must be something wrong with John. I need more data._

Sherlock rushed into his room to get dressed.

.

.

That evening after dinner, the two of them relaxed in the living room. John was reading, and Sherlock was at his computer staring surreptitiously at John. Sherlock had spent the day looking over John's financial and work records, but had found nothing to suggest a reason for John's actions.

A noise sounded and John pulled his phone out of his pocket. He looked at the text on the screen and smiled. Then he shoved the phone back onto a pocket and rose to his feet. "I'm off," he said grabbing his coat as he charged off down the stairs.

Sherlock turned toward the chair that he had just vacated. He had pretended to be reordering his computer criminal database, but he had secretly been observing John. Cataloging in his mind all of the changes between the John of today and the John before Moriarty' death and his faked one. He thought:

**He's a bit older. **

**He doesn't have a regular girlfriend.**

**He reads more.**

**He follows me when he thinks that I can't see him.**

**He doesn't talk to Mycroft.**

_"Let's start there,"_ Sherlock thought as he pulled out the phone and called his brother.

"Mycroft," he said.

"What do you want now?" Mycroft asked.

"I have a few questions about what happened when I was away."

"If you want to know how John feels, why don't you ask him?" Mycroft said tiredly.

"I'm asking you," Sherlock said.

"I'm hanging up," Mycroft replied closing the connection.

A frown crossed Sherlock's face. He put his phone away and jumped up putting on his coat. John had a good start on him, but Sherlock was not concerned since he had put a tracer on John's phone. He pulled out his phone as he stood in the doorway and stared at the little dot on the map before rushing down the steps to hail a taxi. John was in the tube. Reception would go out soon, but Sherlock had already figured out from the schedule which line he must be on so he was waiting when John walked up out of the underground. Sherlock walked far enough back so that he could just see John's head weaving through the crowd. He stopped in an alcove as John paused to look at a posting in a window. Sherlock turned to look at it when he passed. It was an advertisement for an apartment finding service. Sherlock memorized the number and walked on.

John entered a pub, and Sherlock followed, slowing to let a pair of men enter before him so that he had a chance to hide. Slinking off to one side, he crouched in a shaded corner watching as John walked over to a woman sitting at a table. She crossed her long, tanned legs toward him, one arm stretched out on the table, the other hand resting lightly on her elbow. She smiled up at him with her glossy red lips, flashing her cleavage before shaking out her long, curly black hair. John took her hand and sat. He motioned for a waiter and bought two drinks.

_"So, John has a woman. Is this why he's moving, to spend more time with her?" _

The woman had her mouth to his ear, whispering something that made John move his hand down to rest upon her knee. John drank his beer while the woman ran her finger absent-mindedly around the rim of her martini. Then she took out the olive and ate it very slowly. John stared at her mouth, his hand still resting on her knee.

Sherlock knew where this was leading. He leaned back into the darkness and waited for them to leave, following them only as far as her flat before returning home.

Back at Baker street, he considered his list again.

**He's a bit older.**  
**He doesn't have a regular girlfriend.**  
_But he does have someone for ...assignations._

**He reads more.**  
**He follows me when he thinks that I can't see him.**

**He doesn't talk to Mycroft.**  
_Who won't talk to me about it._

**He was acquitted of an accusation of murder.**

_That could certainly disturb him, and he seemed agitated after the trial. He killed one man and almost killed another. The look on his face. _

Sherlock remembered John's skull-like face. His eyes wide. His teeth bared. He was frightening, like the face of death himself. For a moment, maybe two, he had thought that John would kill him. Then, his eyes had changed, and the old John returned. The normal John.

Lately, however, John had been quiet. He avoided Sherlock, and they didn't talk as they used to. Usually Sherlock didn't mind because John was a good companion mostly BECAUSE he failed to talk, but now, it disturbed him. John needed to talk to work out his feelings, just as Sherlock liked to talk to work out his ideas.

Sherlock heard the sound of the front door, and John's footsteps on the stairs. The door opened, and John entered. He walked into the room, and hung up his coat. "You look thoughtful, are you on a case?" he asked.

"A small one," Sherlock said.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not yet. I'm still in the early stages," Sherlock replied staring over his fingertips at John.

"Well I'm off to my room. I have an early start tomorrow," John said.

Sherlock nodded waiting for his footsteps to fade away before jumping up, getting his coat, and rushing out of the flat.

Thirty minutes later he was at her door. He knocked. The woman opened the door a crack, a chain holding it shut. "Hello," she said, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders not quite hiding a glimpse of red lace. She smelled like John.

"Hello," Sherlock said, "I'd like to talk to you a bit about John Watson."

The woman looked at Sherlock suspiciously. "It's late," she said, "I was going to bed. Goodnight."

Sherlock shoved his foot forward preventing her door from closing. "You weren't going to sleep, you were awake. You had just decided to smoke a post-coital cigarette which you can't do when John is here because he objects, and you were working on your crosswords. The word that you're looking for is 'crone' a five letter word beginning with C that means hag. 'Witch' won't work because the answer to eleven down is 'catapult' which begins with C. And I'm serious. I need to talk to you about John Watson."

The woman looked down at the crossword on the table beside the door, and then she looked up at Sherlock's face. "Just a moment," she said.

Sherlock removed his foot and the door closed. A few minutes later the door opened and she motioned Sherlock in. She had dropped the blanket on the couch and wrapped herself in a short black coat. The red lace of her negligee peeking out from the bottom.

She put a cigarette to her mouth and lit it before replacing the lighter on the table by the door. Then she picked up the newspaper and erased the word 'witch'. Sherlock stood up straight turning his head from side to side as he surveyed the room.

"Do you want one?" she asked pointing the packet toward Sherlock.

He looked at it hungrily and then leaned back motioning with his hand. "No thank you. I don't smoke anymore."

She cocked her head to the side dropping the pack on the table. "So," she said, "Who are you and what do you know about me?"

Sherlock finished his analysis and glanced back at her face. "My name is Holmes, and I knew very little about you before I came in. I knew from your mailbox that your name was Gardner, and that you and John have known each other for some time, but I know considerably more now."

She took a puff. "So, what do you know other than I smoke, and I like crosswords?" she asked.

Sherlock turned his feet toward her and then took another glance around the room, "I can tell that you're single. The second of four siblings. Not very close to your sisters, but fond of your little brother. You work in a news stand, probably near the rail line, but that's just your day job. You've worked as an exotic dancer, but you quit that over a year ago. Now you teach pole dancing classes to middle aged married women at the community center. It pays a lot less, but you get fewer illicit propositions from the wrong type of men. I could go on, but I do have some questions."

The woman pulled the cigarette out of her mouth and laughed. "You know, he does that, John. He'll tell me what I been doing and what I'm thinking but you're even better at it. Is there anything you don't know?"

"Yes."

"What's that?"

"Your name."

She dumped the ashes into a takeout container and stretched out her hand to him.

"Well Mr. Holmes, I'm Cherie, and before you ask, yes that is my real name. So tell me how do you know John?"

"I'm his flatmate," Sherlock said.

"Flatmate?" she said surprised, "I didn't know he had one."

"I've been away on an extended vacation of sorts, but I've returned. That's why I'm here actually. Can you tell me how long you've known him?"

"Met him a little over a year ago."

"At the strip club?"

"At the news stand. He's a very nice man, John is. Helped me find the job in the community center."

"And then you became … intimate."

"We shagged, yeah? I wouldn't say we were 'intimate' if by that you mean we are a couple. We aren't. Nice as he is, John is not the sort of man for commitment if you know what I mean."

"He's not the sort ... for ...commitment?" Sherlock said slowly trying to fit the strange words into his brain.

"Yeah, you know. He's a bit...not there sometimes. You can't trust that he even sees you. Sometimes when we're at it even he'll space out. He apologizes and everything, but he's ...like I said, he's not there."

"I see," Sherlock said not seeing.

"I don't even know why I'm saying these things to you, a complete stranger. It's just... you remind me of him."

"I remind you of John?" Sherlock said surprised.

"Yeah, the way you look around sizing everything up. The way you hold back your emotions. Even the way you talk. That's how I knew not to call the police. You act a bit like him. Either that, or he acts like you. So what brings you out here in the middle of the night? You must want to talk to me without him knowing. What's so important?"

Sherlock looked into her eyes and wondered himself why he'd come. At first he thought that John might have wanted to leave to stay with Cherie, but now he knew that that was an incorrect assumption. Cherie Gardner was not the type of girl that John would consider for a serious relationship. He had seen John's choice in girlfriends: A doctor, a teacher, a law student. He liked them smart and pretty. Exotic women like Cherie with her hourglass figure and her long black curls that fell to her waist were the kind whose pictures he stored on his laptop, not the kind that he brought home. And now that Sherlock thought of it, John hadn't brought anyone home, not since he had returned. John had hardly left Sherlock's side in all these months.

Cherie puffed her cigarette and stared at Sherlock's face. The tip glowing red as she sucked in. "What I'd give to know what's going on in that head of yours." she said, "Come all this way to check on your flatmate's sex life, and you just stand there, hardly asking a thing. Is there anything else you want to ask, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock looked at her for a moment, and then shook his head. "No. I can't think of anything else right now. I just wanted to know why he was ...different. If you can think of anything, anything strange about the way that he's been acting recently, then give me a call."

Sherlock reached out and taking a pen from his pocket signed his name and phone number on the edge of her crossword before he turned to go. She lifted the page and called out, "Sherlock? Your name is Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned back to stare at her surprised expression. She lowered the paper placing her cigarette in an empty vase as she walked up to him. She leaned forward and examined his face, bending from side to side to look him over as if she had never really seen him before.

"What is it?" he asked.

"He calls out your name," she said, "in his sleep, sometimes. He calls out your name... and he cries."

Sherlock stood still, staring into her questioning gaze, and then he turned heel and left.


	3. Myths and Dreams

John sat comfortably in his chair in the living room of 221B Baker street reading a book titled "Classic Greek Myths." Sherlock sat across from him with his knees pulled up to his chest. He was watching John.

When Sherlock had faked his death, he didn't think of the consequences for John. He only thought that his actions would make sure that John would not die. Sherlock knew that John had been sad when he died. He had watched from the shadows as John cried beside his grave, but frankly, he had been shocked at the level of emotion John showed when he finally did reveal himself to be alive. There was anger. There were tears, even after all that time.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Sherlock had been afraid that John would forget him. He had woken at night worrying that when he finally did show up on John's doorstep, that John just wouldn't care. The fact that this wasn't the case had pleased him. He had also been pleased when John had agreed immediately to the suggestion that they move back into their old flat together.

Sherlock had not noticed before how odd it was for John to simply agree to live with him without reservations. This was probably because the first time, they had become flatmates only one day after they had met, and it had worked out fine. Now John had a new job across town and he had to wake an hour earlier to make it to work on time. He had never seemed to regret the choice, until now.

But John had not said that he was moving for convenience. If he had insisted on living closer to his job then Sherlock might...he would, move with him. But John had said no such thing. He gave no explanation, and the mystery of the thing ate away at Sherlock. For some unknown reason, John didn't want to stay with him anymore. He had thought that being alive would fix everything, yet it seemed almost as if John was still in mourning.

Sherlock went over his list again.

**He's a bit older.**

_They say that the death of someone close, ages a man. John doesn't look older, but he acts it. He jokes less. He does things in a more determined way, a more decisive way. Before we ran through the streets of London like children. Now we stand apart._

**He doesn't have a regular girlfriend.**

_But he does have someone for assignations. He isn't shopping for a wife anymore. He has Cherie, a woman who John treats as a convenience, a woman with dark curls. Black curls. A woman who says that John calls out for me in his sleep. I should have asked about the last time. Does he call for me even now? I should find out._

**He reads more.**

Sherlock put his feet down and sat up in his chair.

"John?" he asked.

John looked up over the top of his book. "Yes Sherlock?"

"What are you reading?"

"I was reading the story of the Minotaur of Crete. Do you know it?"

"I know that a Minotaur has the body of a man and the head of a bull. I must have deleted the rest of the story. What's it about?"

John uncrossed his legs and sat forward one leg outstretched. He placed the ribbon between the pages to mark where he was reading before laying the book down on his lap. "The king of Crete's wife developed a passion for a bull. She gave birth to a son with the head of a bull and the body of a man."

"That couldn't happen," Sherlock said, "Genetics doesn't work that way."

"It's a myth, Sherlock. The stories aren't meant to be taken literally."

"But it's totally inaccurate!"

"Do you want to hear the story or not?"

Sherlock closed his mouth and looked attentively at John who continued.

"So, she gave birth to this half-bull half-man creature. The king did not want to kill it outright, so he had his most skillful architect, Daedalus, make a maze called a Labyrinth so that it could never escape and never be seen."

"Is that all?" Sherlock asked.

"No. It's an epic. The story of Theseus founder of Athens. I can let you borrow the book."

"No thank you," Sherlock said, " I was just wondering why you were reading it?"

John shifted in his chair. He touched the thumb and forefinger of his left hand to his lip in contemplation. "I suppose," he said, his eyes unfocused unless they were focused on his thoughts. "I suppose that I'm seeking something relevant to my life."

Sherlock pinched his brows together waving his arms in exasperation, "How can completely implausible stories from three thousand years ago possibly have any relevance to your life today?"

John shook his head, a tight smile on his face. "I can't explain it Sherlock. Either you get it or you don't." John placed the book down on the table. "Well, read it if you want to, I'm going to bed."

.

.

.

In the darkness of John's bedroom, the only sound, his steady breathing, the only light, a yellow rectangle spilling under his door from the hallway, there was the softest of clicks. The polyhedron of light changed shape as the door slowly opened without even a creak.

The shadow of a man stretched across the room almost but not quite reaching the bed before the door was shut silently behind him. His quiet footfalls never rose above the sound of John's heavy breath. The sheet rose and fell as Sherlock climbed into the bed. He stroked the short hairs at base of John's neck, poking their rough tips with the edge of his fingers. John's labored breathing quieted at his touch. Sherlock rested his head on the crook of his elbow, glancing over at John's back until he too fell asleep. His head rolled forward until his forehead rested upon the back of John's. The breath from his nose causing the hairs on John's head to shiver, dancing across the edge of Sherlock's slightly parted lips.


	4. Harry

Sherlock walked briskly into the lab to find Molly examining files at her desk. She jumped up when he entered, "Sherlock, is everything alright?" she asked noting his concerned expression. "What do you need?"

"Information," he said.

"Oh?" she replied, "about what?"

"John, what happened to him when I was away?"

Molly sighed heavily and sat back down at her desk. "Did you ask him?" she said, "Didn't he ever tell you how much he missed you?" She looked up at Sherlock who stared back at her saying nothing. "Well, I'm sorry I won't be much help to you. I didn't see much of John when you were away. We don't work together, and frankly I was avoiding him."

"Avoiding him, why?" Sherlock asked.

Molly's brow furrowed, "I couldn't watch him. I couldn't bear to be around him. He was in so much pain when you were gone. He was a walking wound. How could I look him in the eye with what I knew? How could I face him when I knew that you were still alive?"

"He was ... upset?"

Molly laughed nervously, "Have you even tried to talk to John about it?" she said, "Don't ask me about him. When I saw John coming, I'd walk the other way. I'm embarrassed to say it, but it's true. I never knew when you asked me to help you, how hard it would be when you were gone. I felt just awful about it. I still don't know how to face him. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I can't help you. Ask someone else. After the funeral, he stayed over at his sister's house. Perhaps you can ask her." Molly gathered together her files and stood. "Excuse me, but I've got some work to do. Sorry," Molly said as she passed by him and rushed out of the room. Her hand rising to her eye to brush away a tear.

.

.

Sherlock sat on the couch in the flat, that afternoon mulling over her words._ "He was in so much pain."_ Sherlock hadn't meant for John to feel pain. A bit of sorrow, perhaps, but not pain. John had never talked to him about pain. But talking to John. How would he approach it? Should he say,_ "John, did it hurt when I was away?"_ What would Sherlock do if he said_ "Yes!"_ For that matter, what would Sherlock say if he said _"No."_ Anyway, the past was past. There was no changing it. What was important now was the present, and why John was leaving.

Sherlock looked up at the sound of John on the steps. "John," he said, "You are home early."

John hung up his coat and kicked off his shoes. "Messy case today. Stomach flu. A child vomited all over me. I'm off for the shower." He took his keys and wallet out of his pants and put them in his coat pocket before heading for the bathroom.

Sherlock sat up when he was gone. He walked over to John's coat and fished out his phone. Rifling through the numbers, he found one for his sister, Harry. He pulled out his own phone and dialed. "Hello, Harry Watson? Sherlock Holmes here. Do you think that I might meet with you later today to talk about your brother?"

.

.

Sherlock walked up the steps to the first floor. It was only when he was standing outside of Harry's white painted door that he realized that he had never really met his best friend's sister. He rang the bell, and Harry Watson opened the door. She was wearing a bright yellow sundress and holding a drink in her hand. "Come on in," she said, "the weather's fine."

Sherlock entered the flat and then turned to look back at Harry. She was short like John, with dirty blond hair, one lock of which had been dyed bright red. Her features resembled his, but her eyes were brown, and her ears less prominent. The straps of the dress revealed a tan-line on her shoulder that showed that she was more used to wearing T-shirts than sundresses. The more he looked, the more sure he was that the dress was borrowed. A dress of Clara's perhaps that she had thrown on to make her seem more friendly and less threatening?

"Please, take off your coat, make yourself comfortable," she said bending down to clear off the couch. "Do you want a drink?"

"No," Sherlock said looking around the flat. The room was cluttered, but comfortable. There was a couch and a few chairs angled to give a good view of the telly. A false fireplace was against one wall, and on the mantle stood a picture of John in his uniform next to a row of dart trophies and plaques. Harry appeared to have participated in virtually every pub dart competition in London. Marksmanship must run in the family.

"I hope that you don't mind if I make myself one," Harry said, "I'm in a tropical mood today." She walked over to the kitchen counter where she had a portable bar, "Really, It's no trouble to mix you something if you want it."

"No, thank you," Sherlock reiterated.

Near the door, below a window was a bookshelf holding books, CDs and magazines leaning this way and that in semi-organized chaos. There were photographs on the top of Harry and her friends. They were covered with a fine layer of dust that revealed, the gap where one picture frame had been removed but never replaced. _"That would be their wedding picture,"_ he thought.

Sherlock sat on the couch and glanced up at the mirrored glass beer sign hanging on the kitchen wall above Harry's head. She turned toward him and smiled. The hitch of her lip looked familiar. It was John's crooked smile. Sherlock found it disturbing to see that smile on anyone else.

"Well I finally get to meet the bloke himself," she said dropping down to sit on the edge of a beige ottoman "It's so nice to meet you at last. John always kept you from me."

"Kept me from you?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course." Harry said brushing her hair out of her eyes. "All that time you lived together, and he never invites me over, never brings his flatmate by for a drink. He didn't want you to meet me. I used to think it was because he was embarrassed of me, but maybe he just couldn't bear the thought that I'd take a fancy to you. You are a bit of a looker you know." Harry grinned wider and then took another sip of her drink.

"I thought that you were gay?" Sherlock said.

"I am, mate" she replied, "That's a joke. You know jokes right?" She said fixing him with a stare before slouching down on the stool. "Don't be so serious."

"John always said that he didn't visit you because you didn't get along. I supposed that he simply didn't like you much." Sherlock said.

"Oh, that's a bit harsh," Harry said, "Then again, he always was a bit angry that I stole Clara from him. And I suppose it is true that you can count on one hand our evenings together that have ended well. But I've always wanted to meet you, and now you're here, so... what did you want to talk about?"

"I need to know about John," Sherlock said his voice deepening despite himself.

Harry sat back. She blinked. "Ah! I get it. He's gone and done something, and when you asked him about it he got all tight-lipped. Is it something like that?"

"Something like that."

"John's stubborn. Too stubborn for his own good, but what do you want from me?"

"I want you to answer some questions, about John."

Harry smirked, "Well, Okay. I'll answer your questions, but only if you'll answer me something first."

"What do you want to know?" Sherlock asked.

"Are you shagging my brother?" Harry asked.

"No," Sherlock replied.

"Why not?" She asked.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "I am sure that you have heard John say that he is not attracted to men."

Harry's smile grew. "Well, John doesn't really see you as a man, does he now?" Harry said.

"What do you mean? He sees me as a woman?"

"No. It's just...to John, you aren't so much a person as … I don't know, an ideal, a force of nature. Are you sure that you haven't shagged him because, I mean, it looks that way. Well, never mind...what did you want to ask me?"

Sherlock sat forward in his seat. "I'd like to know, has there been a change in John? A change from the way he was before I ...was presumed dead?"

Harry stared at him with a blank, shocked expression. "You mean other than the fact that you broke his heart into a thousand tiny pieces, and he drank so much he made me look like a teetotaler? A change other than that?"

"I broke his heart?"

"Didn't you know? I thought you were good at finding out that sort of thing, mate. He's completely different now. Next question."

Sherlock frowned. He pressed his palms together below his mouth for a moment before dropping them down on his lap as he decided to take another tack with her. "Okay," he said, " tell me what John was like as a child?"

"Smaller," Harry said and then she laughed, "No seriously, he was a pretty good kid until he was about eleven or so. After our parents divorce, he changed. Since dad wasn't there anymore, John tried to take his place. He's been trying to tell me what to do ever since."

"You don't seem to like John that much," Sherlock said.

"Oh I like him fine," Harry said, "I just don't like spending too much time with him. John doesn't know how to have fun, you see. He can't ever just let things go. He's always telling me what I should and shouldn't be doing. He's a bit of a wet blanket, and a self-righteous one at that. I was chuffed to bits to hear that he joined the army. See his picture over there. I asked him to send me one."

Sherlock glanced up at the picture. It showed John in green and brown camouflage standing in front of a tent. Strapped to his arm was a white band with a red cross. It was only then that Sherlock realized that John never showed pictures of himself from his army days. He looked back at Harry. "Why were you glad that he joined the army?" Sherlock asked.

"Well first of all because he'd be spending loads of time far away from here. But mostly, because I thought that it was the right kind of place for a man like him. You know, a man of his temperament."

"What kind of temperament?" Sherlock found himself starting to get angry. It was uncharacteristic of him. "He's a doctor. He cares about people. He wants to help them."

"I'm not saying that he can't be nice to other people. I'm just saying that that's not the whole John if you get my drift. Surely you've noticed that face that he puts on to make everyone think that he's harmless. Do you honestly believe that he's as harmless as he looks? John is a good guy most of the time, as long as you don't run across his dark side. It was the dark part of him that I hated as a kid. The kid who put pegs in trees and got into fights. "

"John got into fights?"

"Oh yeah. For a little guy, he could really hold his own. When he got older, he learned how to hide his anger. Everybody loves him now. You love him too. I can tell. God knows he loves you."

Sherlock stared at her wide eyed.

"Don't get me wrong," Harry said putting her empty glass down on the table. "I love John to death. He is my brother after all, but John was always a little too dark for me."

Sherlock furrowed his brow trying to match up her image of John with his own. "But John is one of the most easy-going persons that I know. He's not dark."

"If you think that, then you don't really know him," Harry said.

Sherlock flashed back to his second day with John.

.

"**You have just killed a man," **_Sherlock said._

**"Yes," **_John said, only then realizing that he had he had just revealed himself. He cocked his head to the side a strange tight smile crossed his face_** "It's true isn't it...but he wasn't a very nice man."**

**.**

They had walked away laughing, and John had never shown a second of remorse. Sherlock hadn't felt any remorse either, but then again Sherlock had never killed a man. How many people had John killed? He might be more likely to be named a sociopath than Sherlock. It was an odd thought.

"Oh, so you have seen it," Harry said, "I can tell by that look in your eye." Harry laughed again. "Every one always thinks that I'm the wild one in the family. John acts so flippin normal, but he likes to follow his own rules. He's nice enough most of the time, but when he's not. Watch out!" Harry looked up at John's picture on the mantle, "You asked what's changed. He's not hiding it as well. That's my thought."

"Hiding what?"

"His feelings, his true self, but I don't know if you'd notice. He probably acts differently around you."

Harry stared at him a moment, and then turned away covering a yawn. A tear rolled down her right cheek. "Excuse me," she said, "I haven't gotten enough sleep, it makes me tear up. Don't read anything into it."

"What is he hiding from me?" Sherlock said even more insistently.

Harry leaned forward to look into Sherlock's eyes. He stared back, unblinking. Harry turned away tilting her head and smiling, "Tell me Sherlock," she asked, "what feelings do you have for my brother?"

Sherlock sat up straight. He wrinkled his brow, "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Do you like him?" she asked, "Do you love him? Do you fancy him?"

"I...I..." Sherlock stuttered at a loss for words.

"Maybe John has been hiding his feelings from you, but I thought with your reputation that you'd notice."

"Notice what?"

"That with you, John has no barriers. He has no resistance to you. None at all. When you were gone, he was a broken man. He wanted you back so much he pretended he was you. He went a little bit crazy. Now that you're back he's trying to fit back into the role that he had then, but he's different. Like I said, he has no barriers. You could hurt him so easily. You could do what ever you wanted to him. He wouldn't resist you because he's just so glad that you're back."

Harry stood up, "You know, I really wish you had been shagging. Then perhaps he'd have learned to set limits. Give himself a safe word or something. Some way of telling you when you are getting too close, but John doesn't have one now. He's not safe, not from you."

"I don't understand," Sherlock said, "What are you trying to tell me?"

"I don't know. I probably shouldn't have said anything. It's just ...be careful."

"Be careful of what?"

"Be careful with John," she said. For a brief moment Harry's face was unguarded. She looked harried, and worried, and sad. "He seems whole, but he's got fractures. He isn't always as strong as he lets on."

Sherlock looked down at his hands remembering John's expression at the bank when he had said_,"I'm fine, I'm fine." _Something had been wrong with him then. Sherlock should have confronted him. He should have asked what was wrong.

When Sherlock looked up again, Harry was smiling. "I'm sorry Sherlock, but I really have to take a nap now. Let me show you out." She stood up waiting for him to rise, and then she ushered him out of the door, closing it and locking it behind him.

.

.

Sherlock walked down the steps and into the street. He considered her words. _"Be careful." _What did she mean by_ 'his true self'?" _

It was just past sunset and there was a crescent moon in the sky. He turned his head to gaze at it wondering how people could look at the same thing and see it so differently. When he turned back he saw John, hands in the pockets of his black coat, staring back at him from the street corner.

Sherlock walked toward him shortening the distance until they stood face to face. John moved his jaw in that way he did when he was thinking of what to say. "Went to see my sister, did you?" John asked, "What exactly is this little case that you are on?"

"Would you believe me if I said that I was planning your birthday party?" Sherlock said.

"No," John said, "What are you on about?" John looked up into his eyes, his lip jutting out angrily as he stared.

"You followed me here," Sherlock said.

"Yeah," John replied.

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"You used to follow me, remember? Why was that, exactly?"

"I was concerned for your safety."

"You were nosy," John said.

"Is that why you are here? Because you're nosy?"

"What did you want from Cherie?" John asked.

"The birthday story wouldn't work here would it?" Sherlock asked.

"Ha, ha, you're being funny. You're not good at it."

"Why are you moving, John?" Sherlock asked his voice becoming more intense.

"Is that what you came to see Harry? About my leaving?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock replied hands in his pockets as he met John's eyes.

John turned his face aside. Then noticing the moon for the first time, he took a moment to stare at it. Sherlock stepped closer looking at it too.

"Beautiful isn't it?" Sherlock said looking out of the corner of his eye at John. Then to himself he muttered, "no barriers."

"What was that?" John asked.

Sherlock turned his head toward John and stared at him. His eyes examining John's feet, his knees, his hands which were in his pockets, the curve of his shoulders, the slouch of his back. Sherlock walked slowly around him until he stood in front of John. The moon just visible beside his curl covered forehead.

He slid one foot forward and then another inching closer to John until the tip of his black leather shoe passed between John's trainers. John stared up at Sherlock. His eyes reflecting the deep blue of the evening sky.

"Sherlock," John said softly.

"Yes, John," Sherlock replied in a whisper.

"What are you doing?" John asked.

"Testing your barriers," Sherlock said inching even closer so that the outside of his coat rubbed against John's jacket. "Harry said that you had no barriers when it came to me."

"What does that mean?" John asked his voice a low rumble barely rising above the muted sounds of distant traffic.

"I supposed that she meant proxemics. That you will let me get close to you," Sherlock replied moving his forearm to touch John's shoulder. "She was right."

John gazed up into Sherlock's searching eyes and said, "She was wrong, Sherlock. If you don't step away from me right now I'll knee you in the balls."

Sherlock examined John recognizing the slightly clenched teeth and the sideways smirk on his face. He stepped back several feet. John relaxed.

"You did let me touch you though," Sherlock said, "Why?"

John stood silently, the smirk growing into a smile. "I let you get away with doing weird things because I know what an annoying dick you are," he said.

Sherlock smiled back at him and said, "So you're saying that you like annoying dicks?"

"Shut the hell up Sherlock we're going home."


	5. Breath

_I climb out of the car and then the phone rings. I answer. Sherlock is on the line. "John," he says. _

_I ask if he's okay because his voice sounds stressed and strange. He tells me to turn around and walk back the way that I came. "No, I'm coming in," I say running across the dark pavement toward the hospital, the cab pulling away behind me._

_He raises his voice crying, "Just do as I ask! Please." Sherlock never begs. _

_Then he says that he's on the rooftop. I look up and I see him, his coat swinging in the wind. I step back surprised. I know that it's him. I'd know Sherlock anywhere. _

_"What's going on?" I ask, my breath coming faster._

_"An apology," he says "It's all true."_

_"What?" I cry._

_"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."_

_I stare at him in shock. I don't know why he's saying this? Doesn't he remember that I was standing beside him every step of the way. That I saw Moriarty pretending to be Richard Brook. I stand open-mouthed, "Why are you saying this?" I ask._

_"I'm a fake," he says._

_I find myself blinking, listening as he says to tell everyone that this lie is the truth. "Okay shut up Sherlock shut up, the first time we met, the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?" I say._

_"Nobody could be that clever," he objects._

_"You could," I reply, and he laughs. For a moment, a brief moment, I think that he'll tell me that this is a joke. Some silly joke of his done to scare me, and it has worked. He is scaring me to the bottom of my soul._

_"I researched you, before we met." My teeth clench in anger as he goes on trying to convince me. Why is he lying to me? Doesn't he trust me enough to tell me the truth?_

_"Alright stop it now," I cry. I want to go up there and force some sense into him._

_"Stay exactly where you are, don't move!" he yells, and I hear the desperation in his voice. This is serious. I hold up my hand, and he holds up his. If only we could touch, maybe then he could make me understand what was going on. Tell me why..._

_"Please will you do this for me?" Sherlock asks panic in his voice._

_"Do what?"_

_"This phone call, it's my note." His voice becomes calmer, imploring. "It's what people do don't they, leave a note?"_

_I know then that he's planning to jump, but somehow I can't admit it to myself. "Leave a note, when?" I ask._

_"Goodbye John," he says. The finality of it piercing me like a knife in my heart._

_"Nope..don't," I tell him unable to believe, unable to understand; but he has tossed the phone away, so I yell at the top of my voice, "SHERLOCK!"_

_I watch as he leans over, arms outstretched and falls. He is waving his arms in the air, waving as if he hopes he could fly._

_"Sher..." I start, but he can't hear me. This is NOT happening. It __**can not be.**_

_I run. I see the body lying on the pavement, unmoving. Then something hits me, and I fall to the ground hard. I hear a ringing in my ears, the physical pain nothing to the aching fear in my belly as I rise to my feet and hobble across the street._

_"I'm a doctor. Let me come through, let me come through, please. He's my friend. He's my friend," I cry pushing my way into the crowd that has gathered around his fallen body._

_I reach out and grab his wrist. No pulse. His skin is already turning cold. Then my legs give way. I feel other's hands supporting me. Holding me up. I can see the blood on his face. The blood covering up everything that used to be my friend. They pull me away from him._

_"Please let me just..." I cry hoping that somehow I can fix him. What good is my medical training if I can't? I want to make him back the way he was...alive._

_Then I realize it. He is dead. I rise, waving the others back. The trolley squeaks as Sherlock's dead body is taken away. The others leave, and I am alone. A gentle rain falls and begins to wash away the blood stain on the sidewalk._

_I stand confused, the world reeling around me. I turn to find the street is gone. All that is before me is a rising blackness. I walk toward it until it swallows me, and I can't see or hear or breathe. I try to scream, but I have no breath. _

John gasps, opening his eyes to see the ceiling of his bedroom. His breath is ragged as if he had run a long way. He had, across that pavement, trying to get there in time to stop Sherlock. In time to catch him. John's eyes well with tears. He sheds them now, the tears that he didn't shed then. His cheek is wet with them. He is unable to stop them.

He clenches his eyes closed, turning in on himself until his outstretched arm bumps against something, someone, in his bed. He opens his eyes and sees beside him, Sherlock's sleeping face.

It is Sherlock, lying here beside him, his eyes closed, his mouth open. His dark curls smashed against the pillow, his chest rising and falling in the gentle surety of sleep. Alive. _"He is here ...alive!"_

A smile touches John's lips, "Sherlock," he says involuntarily, joy filling him. He reaches out with his right hand and touches Sherlock's chest proving to himself that this is no vision. His left hand falls on Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock's eyes open. They glow golden in the room's muted light. Golden, like bright embers in the back of the fireplace. They glow with life, with warmth, with love.

.

John couldn't hide from Sherlock the unbridled joy that he felt to have him back. The tears began to fall again rolling across his face and dripping off of his nose to soak his pillow.

Sherlock's breath caught. His arm moved and he grasped John's forearm. The forearm of the hand that was pressed against his heart. For a moment outside of time, they lay there together, allowing themselves to feel for each other. Allowing themselves to show how much the other meant to them. Then John closed his eyes again, pulling away from Sherlock and rolling over.

Sherlock reached out his hand to touch John's shoulder, but he pulled it back, unable to go the extra half inch needed to touch him. "John, are you alright?" Sherlock said his voice slightly slurred from having just woken.

John lifted his hand to his face brushing away a tear.

"Did you have a bad dream?" Sherlock asked.

John couldn't speak yet. His tongue was in his throat, so a silence fell between them. They both wanted to connect, wanted to communicate something that had no words, but instead they each lay awake in the bubble of their own thoughts. Together but separate as they had been every other day of their lives.

Finally the silence was broken by John's words. "It was just a magic trick," he whispered, "That's what you told me. It's a trick." A chuckle escaped his lips. "Were you trying to tell me not to worry?"

"Yes," Sherlock said to his back.

"But you were still crying."

"Yes," Sherlock replied.

"Sherlock," John asked his voice hesitant, "Did you miss me?"

"Yes!" Sherlock said his voice deep with emotion, and he finally did touch John's back pressing against it with the tip of his middle finger before resting his hand on John's shoulder.

John's eyes clenched together tightly. He held back a sob that turned into a smile, and then he said so silently that it was on the edge of even Sherlock's excellent hearing, "I missed you too."

Sherlock pressed his hand to John's back. He listened as John's breath passed from _tremolo_ to _legato _and on to true sleep.

Sherlock sighed then, raising his hand to touch his own lips. _"This won't be a quick fix like John's psychosomatic limp,"_ he thought, _"the scars are too deep._" Sherlock stayed beside John, guarding his dreams, until the morning light streamed through his bedroom window.


	6. Stories

John woke as sunlight streamed across his face. He opened his eyes and reached out, remembering all that had passed the night before. He was alone in the bed. As his hand returned across the sun-warmed pillow, something moved. He pinched it between his fingers and brought it before his eyes. He had found a single black hair, which told him that last night had not been a dream.

Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper. He looked up at John, staring directly into his eyes before turning back to read the obituaries. "Good Morning, John," he said.

"Morning," John replied passing through on his way to the bathroom. He returned to find Sherlock putting on his coat.

"I have an errand to run. Breakfast is on the table," he said pausing once more to look at John before hurrying down the stairs. Sherlock had fixed him breakfast.

There was a plate of bacon and eggs, a glass of milk, a cup of steaming coffee and the newspaper neatly folded to his favorite section. It was much more attention than Sherlock normally gave him. John smiled. In truth, "Good Morning, John," had been enough to make him happy. He sat down and started in on the eggs.

.

Lestrade had just left a meeting and was about to go through some of his cases when Sherlock walked into his office.

"I need to talk to you," he said.

Lestrade put down the folder that he had been just about to open, "Well good morning, Sherlock. What brings you to my office so early? Actually, I'm glad you're here, there are a few cases that I'd like you to look at."

Sherlock raised a hand to stop him. "Not now. I've got a problem that I need to solve first."

"A problem, not a case?" Lestrade said tilting his head to the side as he looked up at Sherlock who stood stiffly with his hands in his pockets. "What exactly do you want to know?"

"John," Sherlock said, "When I was away, what happened to John?"

Lestrade smirked, "About bloody time you did something," he said rising from his chair and closing his door. He reached over and closed his vertical blinds to give them privacy before gesturing to a chair. "Have a seat," he said.

Sherlock lowered himself onto the green padded seat of the metal office chair. He sat on the very edge leaning forward. "You expected this, you say? What did you expect me to do?"

"I expected that you'd come see me the first week that you got back. I expected that you'd want to know what was going on with your best friend."

"And what was going on?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade smiled and moved his chair out from behind his desk so he had an unobstructed view of Sherlock. "First Sherlock," he said, "Tell me why this is so urgent. Why now, when you've waited months to come see me?"

Sherlock clasped his hands on his knees and looked down. "John says that he wants to move."

A look of surprise crossed Lestrade's face, "So, you two are moving? Where too? I never expected anything would pull you away from Baker Street."

"No. _We two_ are not moving," Sherlock said, "John doesn't want me to move with him. He's moving away from _me_."

A confused expression crossed Lestrade's face, "But why?"

"That's what I've come to ask you about," Sherlock said. "I found this in his coat pocket last night."

Sherlock put a card down on the table. It was a business card for an estate agent. a time, 2:30pm, was scribbled on the back.

"I thought that perhaps he wasn't serious, but now I find that he is acting on his promise to leave."

"And you don't want him to."

"Obviously not," Sherlock replied.

"Have you tried talking to him? Asking him why he wants to leave?"

"He says simply that he has a right to leave if he wants too."

"So, no explanation. Are you sure that he didn't say why?" Lestrade asked gnawing on the end of a pencil as he swiveled in his chair.

"No, and I can't imagine why he would want to."

"I can imagine hundreds of reasons," Lestrade countered, "but they would be why I couldn't stand to live with you. John was always more tolerant."

"Please," Sherlock implored in a tone that made Lestrade stare, "Tell me what happened while I was away."

Lestrade nodded, and then he got up to pour himself a cup of coffee from a pot near the window. Sherlock shook his head to an offered cup. He sat back down and took a sip before beginning.

"Well, after the '_suicide_', we were all pretty broken up, but no one more than John. He lived in your flat for a few weeks, and then he said that the memories were too painful, so he moved in with his sister for a bit before getting a little place somewhere that specialized in rooms for former military.

He was in mourning for you. Wore black every day for over a year. I tried to keep an eye on him, but ... well. We don't really interact that much, not since you weren't going on cases anymore. I met him once, about six months after. He had lost a lot of weight. He was having financial problems. Had trouble keeping up with his rent as his pension wasn't enough. He was making up the difference by only eating every other day."

Sherlock sat up. "Why should that be? I left a note. Mycroft should have taken care of him financially."

Lestrade sighed and shook his head. "You know John," he said, "He's too proud to take money for doing nothing. He threw that money back in Mycroft's face. Called it 'blood money'. Said that Mycroft was paying him off to get rid of his guilt. I didn't understand how Mycroft Holmes could be responsible for your death, but John felt that way. At least that's what he told me. I asked him if I could help. He let me buy him lunch and told me to keep an eye out for any opportunities. A friend of his found him a job at the clinic where he works at now."

"But there's more that you're not telling me," Sherlock said, his mouth a frown.

Lestrade nodded, "I don't know how you know, but it's true. I started worrying about him, so I asked a few of my officers to follow him when they had the time, as a favor to me, to see if he was alright. They said that he would walk all night in the shadiest of neighborhoods. Sometimes they'd have to call off pursuit to call in a crime that they saw in progress. A few times, they had to take him home after he had been kicked out of a bar for being drunk and fighting."

"Fighting? John?"

"Apparently. And once we found him passed out in his flat. He hadn't shown up for work, and they had called the landlady. I had given her my number and told her to call me if there was any trouble. He had overdosed on sleeping pills. He said that it was an accident, but I insisted that he get counseling, or I would list it as a suicide attempt. That would have called his medical license into question. "

"Why did no one tell me this?" Sherlock asked his brows raised in surprise.

"You didn't ask." Lestrade said, "Besides, I supposed that John would tell you. You came to tell me that you were alive, and the next day you and John were living together again. I figured with the two of you being so close, that you'd talk about your experiences and feelings. Don't you?"

"No. We don't" Sherlock said.

"Then maybe you ought to," Lestrade said putting his coffee down and reaching out to touch the arm of Sherlock's coat. "Look mate, maybe the two of you should consider marriage counseling. It did wonders for me and the wife."

Sherlock stood up suddenly. "Is there anything more?" he asked.

Lestrade sat back in his chair crossing his legs. "You might try Mrs Hudson. I hear she bailed him out of jail a few times when he was taken in for being drunk and disorderly."

Sherlock nodded, "I will," he said, "but I have someone else to see first." He turned sharply on his heel, opened the door, and left Lestrade's office.

"You're welcome!" Lestrade called out of the door after him, before pushing his chair back behind his desk and picking up a file.

_ ..._..._...

The door bashed open, and Sherlock stormed into Mycroft's office. A woman following behind said, "I'm so sorry, Mr Holmes..."

Mycroft waved her off, "It's alright, Phillipa," he said, "hold my calls for me. I'll just be a moment."

"Will you now?" Sherlock said striding up to Mycroft's desk.

Mycroft opened a drawer putting away a folder and locking it before looking up at his younger brother who loomed over the desk. "Good morning brother, take a seat. How were things at Scotland Yard?"

"You know why I'm here," he said.

"Of course I do."

"You were supposed to take care of him."

"Sherlock, will you please take a seat!" For a moment it seemed as if Sherlock would defy him and remain standing, but he grabbed the edges of his coat and plopped down in the chair crossing his legs and facing away from his brother. "There, that's better isn't it. Much more civilized. Now, how may I help you?"

Sherlock turned his head and glared at his brother. "You were supposed to take care of him while I was away."

"While you were dead, you mean," Mycroft said with a note of berating in his voice, "If you wanted things to work smoothly, you should have let me in on your plan. Not some mangled email timed to arrive after your supposed death."

"Not this again, I did what I had to."

"I thought that you were dead!"

"A dead man's words should have carried even more weight. I asked you, begged you, to take care of John."

"And if he didn't want to take my help? Sherlock, since your return, how often has John mentioned me?"

Sherlock bent his head and thought, "I don't remember him saying anything about you."

A brief look of sadness crossed Mycroft's face. Sherlock looked at him with surprise. It was rare that Mycroft revealed any true emotion other than irritation in front of Sherlock. "The last time that we spoke, John told me that I was dead to him, just as you were dead. I had hoped that with your return... Do you know why he won't talk to me."

"Something about you being responsible for my death. I suppose he must mean the information that you gave Moriarty. Thanks for that by the way, It really brought James and me closer together."

"This is nothing to joke about. I regret that I failed in that regard for you, but I do want to assure you that despite his resistance, I was always watching out for John, and believe me, he did not make it easy."

"You mean, he went into dangerous areas, picked fights."

"I used to think that John Watson was an eminently sensible young man, that is until your...escapade. Then he revealed a desire to rush toward danger that almost rivaled your own. He also had a notorious ability to evade my surveillance cameras. If it wasn't for his violent streak, he would make a good agent."

"Violent streak?" Sherlock exclaimed, "John Watson is the kindest, most unassuming man, he's a doctor for goodness sake."

"You seem to forget that he was also a soldier," Mycroft said, "some of the men that he incapacitated in his evening ...exertions were my agents sent, at my expense, to keep him out of trouble."

Sherlock cracked a smile at that.

"This is no laughing matter," he said, "I have, however, noticed a severe cutback on his nocturnal activities since your return. Except for occasional visits to his ...lady friend, and some long, unscheduled walks, he is back to his normal, reliable self."

"He was starving!"

"He was not in serious danger, and he procured a job in time."

"Your work?"

"No, but I did make sure that the negative comments on his conduct never made it to their attention."

"I see."

"Do you?" Mycroft asked, "Do you really see what your actions have cost? I noticed that Dr Watson is looking into other accommodations. Did you finally cross a line with him? Is he finally tired of dealing with your childishness?"

"I am not a child, Mycroft."

"Neither are you an adult, at least you do not act like one. Doctor John Hamish Watson is broken, and you are the one who broke him. You had best mend him if you don't want him to leave you forever."

"But how?" Sherlock said emotion and desperation leaking from his voice.

Mycroft sat quietly looking down at his hands which were crossed demurely onto the surface of his desk. "I don't know," Mycroft said. Sherlock looked up at him suddenly, trying to remember if he had ever heard those words come from his brother's mouth before. Then Mycroft caught Sherlock's eye and said, "What I do know, is that if there is anyone who can help him, it will be you."

_ ..._..._...

"Come in dear," Mrs Hudson said giving Sherlock half a hug as she ushered him into her flat. He opened the refrigerator digging around for a snack before sitting down at her table. She turned on the kettle and then carefully lowered herself into a chair. Her hip had gotten worse since Sherlock had been away, and she didn't come up to visit the boys as much as she used to because she found the stairs difficult.

"Well, I see you've finally got some sense and come to talk to me about your little problem with John."

"I'd hardly call it little," Sherlock said absentmindedly rearranging the salt and pepper shakers on Mrs Hudson's table.

"I know that it seems that way to you, but every problem seems big when you're young, dear," she said patting his shoulder. "It was a poor thing you did to that boy pretending to die. A poor thing that you did to me. And it was quite a shock, you coming back, though we're glad of it. Don't mistake that, but old people like me can't take too many shocks in their lives, and John's got an old-fashioned heart. It was hard on him too.

"For two years straight, you were inseparable, and then one day you're gone. He didn't know what to do with himself, poor boy."

"What happened?" Sherlock asked.

"What always happens. He was in shock for a while, and then he tried to escape by drinking. Eventually he came to some kind of acceptance, and then you came back. He's happy, oh yes, he's very happy to see you, but you can't expect that people will just stop and wait for you to return. Life goes on."

Sherlock slouched forward uncharacteristically placing his forehead on the table. "What should I do?" he asked her bashing his head against the tabletop until Mrs Hudson placed a hand on his hair and stroked it like she would a child.

"Now you know that no matter what he says, there's no place he'd rather be than by your side," Mrs Hudson said reassuringly, "You just have to remind him of that."

The tea kettle whistled, and Mrs Hudson rose to brew a pot of tea. "Now sit up properly. A cup of tea will set you right, and I think I may have some of those lemon biscuits that you like so much." Sherlock sat up and smiled.


	7. Icarus

After a nice tea with Mrs Hudson, Sherlock walked back upstairs to find John in his chair reading again. Sherlock walked over and sat down, watching as John turned a page. What Sherlock had said to Lestrade was true. He and John didn't talk. John hadn't said anything to Sherlock about his troubles, about his months of poverty, but peering over the top of his hands at John, Sherlock could see the signs. The way that John's clothes hung a little more loosely than they should. A hollowness under his cheeks. John had a few more white hairs than he had before. His temples were definitely silvering. The skin under his eyes were baggy, and there were wrinkles on his brow.

Harry had been correct. John was different. Not _completely different_ as she had said, but he had changed. He wasn't the carefree, happy, joking man that he had been before. He still joked. He still smiled, but there was something sad in John's eyes now. An expression that Sherlock didn't understand, and Sherlock couldn't stand not understanding.

"John," Sherlock said, "What are you reading now? Still with the minotaur?"

John looked up. His book resting on his crossed legs. "It's the same book, but I'm at another part."

"What's happening?" Sherlock asked.

John looked at Sherlock's expectant expression and leaned his head on his cheek. "Now I'm reading about Daedelus and Icarus."

"Daedelus, you mentioned his name before. He made the Labyrinth, right?"

"Yes."

"Tell me," Sherlock said.

John uncrossed his legs, and placed the book down on his lap as he looked at Sherlock, "Are you really interested?"

"I'm interested in what interests you," Sherlock said.

John pursed his lips and blinked his eyes, "Okay," he said, "So the King of Crete had imprisoned Daedelus and his son, Icarus, in a tower. He wasn't ever going to release them, but Daedelus was clever, he found a way to escape. They gathered the feathers from birds and built wings so that they could fly away."

Sherlock raised his hand and opened his mouth about to mention how the physics would not work, but one look from John made him change his mind.

"The feathers were held together with candle wax. Daedelus warned his son not to fly too low because the salt water could weigh down the feathers, and he would fall into the sea. He also told him not to fly too high because the wax would melt and the wings would fall apart."

"But..." Sherlock said, "Icarus didn't listen. Is that the way the story goes?"

"But..." John said, the edge of his mouth turning up as he spoke, "Icarus was so happy to be able to fly. He was so happy, that he flew too near the sun and the wax melted. He fell into the sea and drowned."

"And what does this story mean?" Sherlock asked.

"What do you mean, '_What does it mean?_' " John replied.

"I am supposing that like many stories of this type, it has a moral, because it certainly is not meant to be taken literally. It ignores the normal drop of temperature that occurs with increasing altitude, unless the temperature inversion is the point of the story. Is it?"

"No. I don't think so," John said, "It's probably a warning against _hubris_, pride. Or perhaps it's a warning against feeling too much. Because if you can soar that high, there is so much further for you to fall."

"John," Sherlock asked hesitantly, "Your nightmares, how long have you had them?"

John closed his book. "Ever since the night that you ...that you died."

"They haven't stopped." It wasn't a question.

"I thought that they had gone away, but after that time in the bank when I almost..."

"When you almost, what?"

"When I almost choked you to death, like that robber with brain damage. I don't know what came over me. I could have seriously hurt you. I'm sorry Sherlock."

"It's okay John. I knew that you wouldn't hurt me," Sherlock said.

"How could you know? I didn't even know that," John said.

"I knew that you wouldn't hurt me, because that's not what you are like, John."

"How do you know what I am like anymore?" John said with a touch of bitterness in his voice. "You were away for a long time."

"I know. I'm sorry," Sherlock said. John lifted his hand and covered his eyes. "John, tell me about the bank. What happened then."

"You were there," John said, "you know what happened."

"But I want to know what you saw."

"I told everyone what I saw at the trial."

"No you didn't," Sherlock said, "That gun. You aimed it. You shot it. You killed that man. It wasn't an accident. Was it?"

"Of course I did. He was pointing a gun at my head!"

"But you didn't tell the court."

"They never asked me that question."

"So I'm asking you. What happened after that woman fainted. I was busy with the man with the rifle so I didn't see. What did he do next?"

John bit his lip, "If you must know, he pointed a gun at your head. The same way that he pointed it at that guard and killed him. He pointed it at you, and there was no way in Hell that I was going to let that bastard shoot you." John's eyes narrowed and his lips pursed in anger. "I mean, how dare he threaten you after ...after... I'd already lost you once." John's breathing became labored then. He opened his mouth and turned down his eyes as he concentrated on calming himself.

Sherlock leaned forward, "John," he said, "were you angry at him, because he threatened me? Is that why you pinned him to the wall?" John continued breathing, but his eyes flew up to look at Sherlock. "It's just that when you looked at me," Sherlock said, "It seemed as if you recognized me and you still were trying to choke me. Are you ...John, are you still angry with me?"

John shook his head from side to side, "No. I'm not angry with you. Frustrated, yes, but not angry. I was appalled that I might have hurt you. My reflexes. They aren't what they were."

"You're reflexes were fine. I'm a blackbelt, but you had me on the floor before I even knew that you were coming. You are an impressive fighter, John. A good man to have at my side. I couldn't get along without you."

"Is that so?" John said with bite in his voice, "You seemed perfectly able to get along without me those years that I thought that you were dead."

"You know why I did that. I had to make Moriarty's followers believe that I was dead."

John pursed his lips together as if he was trying to hold something back and failing. "Couldn't you have. Somewhere in your travels. Couldn't you have sent some sort of word? Told me that you were alive?" John's eyes bored into Sherlock's, his brow knitting, "Couldn't you have trusted me to keep your secret?"

"It wasn't about trust, John."

"Then what the Hell was it about!?" John spat out before closing his lips tightly and glancing away. "We were friends, best friends, more than friends. I woke up every day happy that we were going to do things together, solve cases. I thought that I knew you. And then you jumped... and it made no sense. It made... no... logical... sense. I tried to understand, but ... And then you came back. And I came here to be with you. But...you could have told me. You _should_ have told me that you were alive."

"I wanted to," Sherlock said. "But it would have put you in danger. Moriarty's men were watching you. If you had changed the way you acted, changed your schedule even, they could have guessed."

"Damn it Sherlock! I went through Hell!" John yelled his voice echoing off the walls of the room.

"If you're so damn clever, why couldn't you have gotten a message to me? You just didn't care enough to do it. " John stood up dropping his book on the table. His eyes were glassy. "Look Sherlock, I appreciate that you're concerned about me, but I don't need your help anymore. I'm going to bed, and I think that I'm old enough to sleep by myself now, so goodnight." John strode out of the room and up the stairs.

Sherlock stood frozen listening to John's rapid footfalls, to the sound of his door slamming and locking. John thought that Sherlock didn't trust him. John thought that he didn't care about him. How could he be so wrong? Everything that Sherlock had done from the moment that he had talked to Molly, from the moment that he had arranged the false call that sent John to Mrs Hudson, everything that he had done had been for him.

Sherlock needed to convince John that he did trust him. But how? Sherlock had never felt at such as loss before. Feelings were something that he had always avoided. He had called them the fly in the ointment, the grit on the lens, a weakness, and yet. It was only due to his feelings for John that had been able finish his plan. Those feelings are what had kept him going through the last year.

He had spent that year rooting out every remnant of Moriarty's organization. There were so many times when he had just wanted to give up. So many times when the only hope that had sustained him was the dream of a happy life with John: Waiting for three weeks outside of a warehouse in Sicily for a certain operative to lead him to Moran's top assistant, flirting with a French receptionist in order to get five minutes in one of Moriarty's agent's offices, and worst of all standing behind that tree in the graveyard watching as John broke down in front of his tombstone.

He had survived those times by reminding himself that this was only temporary. That when he was finished, finally finished, that he and John could go back to the way that they had been before, together. Without those feelings, without the certainty of the reward at the end, Sherlock could never have resisted rushing out from behind that tree to tell John that he was alive, to tell John that everything would be okay.

Yet John felt that not rushing out was proof that he didn't trust him. Sherlock simply stood staring at John's chair. "I did it for you," he said to the empty seat, but it gave him no answer.


	8. Fighting

John shook hands with the estate agent and walked through the doorway and down the stairs to the street. He pushed his way through the revolving door, and turned toward the station, but as he rounded the corner, he saw a familiar tall figure in a long coat standing in front of him.

"Sherlock," he said, "fancy meeting you here. You've been following me again."

"You followed me before. It seemed only polite to return the favor," Sherlock said. The corner of John's mouth twitched into an unwitting smile and Sherlock's mouth echoed his.

For a few moments, John and Sherlock simply stared at each other, forming an obstruction in the river of people who had to pass around them as they took up space on the sidewalk. Then John walked around Sherlock and kept going. Sherlock turned and ran to keep pace with him. "So are you looking at new flats?" Sherlock asked, "I like a good sized kitchen for my experiments."

"I'm not getting the flat for you, Sherlock," John said walking briskly his arm swinging stiffly at his side as he crumpled the advert pages in his fist.

Sherlock reached out taking the papers from his hand. John turned to stare at him, "But these are all one bedroom!" Sherlock proclaimed loudly. "I know that we've been sleeping together recently, but I would appreciate my own room."

John snatched the papers back as a woman gave the two of them a knowing look. John glared "Sherlock, I told you that I was moving, so I'm out looking at flats. Why are you here?"

"Can I come along?" Sherlock asked hopefully bouncing on the balls of his feet like a puppy.

John tried to hold on to his frown, but Sherlock's expectant expression made his eyes soften. He turned away. "Fine. Do whatever you want," John said waving his hand behind him as he walked on. Sherlock rushed behind.

"It's just if we're going to move, I want to..."

John turned to face him, "Sherlock, _we_ are not moving anywhere. _I_ am moving to a new flat."

"But that can't be," Sherlock said.

"Why not?"

"Because..." Sherlock leaned over John motioning with his finger, "because you need me."

"I need you?" John looked at him skeptically.

"Yes. You need me. Without me, you'd be bored in a week."

"You're the one who gets bored," John said and resumed walking.

"Yes, I would get bored without you. But you'll be bored just treating skinned knees. Where's the excitement in that?"

John turned and clapped his hands together. "I'm not saying that I won't visit or do cases with you, I'm just not living with you anymore."

"But you like living with me," Sherlock insisted.

"And what makes you think that?" John asked crossing his arms.

"Your blog. You document dozens of incidents where interesting and exciting things happen at our flat."

"I also have documented how I was kidnapped, bombed, and almost poisoned there. I think that your argument is weak."

John turned to take a short cut down an alley. Sherlock ran in front of him blocking his way.

"Sherlock!" John said sternly. He tried to walk around him, but Sherlock shifted spreading out his arms. "Sherlock," John said again in an even more threatening voice, "I don't feel like playing with you right now, so get out of my way."

"Or what?" Sherlock said holding his ground.

"Move out of my way, or I'll make you move," John said his eyes narrowing.

Sherlock smirked. "Come now John, I am taller than you, and with my martial arts training ..."

John rushed forward grabbing Sherlock around the waist with both arms and tackled him so that he fell down onto the pavement knocking the wind out of him.

John rose up to his feet looking down at Sherlock who lay flat on the ground. "Don't underestimate me, Sherlock," he said, "You keep forgetting that I was a soldier. I could kill you with my bare..."

Sherlock swung his legs around knocking John's feet from under him so that he fell to the ground. Then Sherlock scrambled over and leaned hard on his wrists pinning him there. He rolled John over pressing John down with a knee between the shoulder blades while he twisted his left arm up behind his back. His hand still pinned John's right wrist.

"Don't _you_ forget that I have a black belt in _Taekwando. _You got me once when I was unprepared, but that won't happen again," Sherlock said as he held John's face firm against the pavement, his arm in an uncomfortable twist.

"Ouch Sherlock," John said. "Can't you loosen it a little? That hurts."

Sherlock released John's left arm and removed his knee from John's back. John sat up on his heels breathing heavily as he rubbed his shoulder. Sherlock sat behind him one hand still clasping his right wrist. Suddenly John pulled his right hand out of Sherlock's grasp, elbowing him hard in the nose.

Sherlock fell back onto his heels rising again to a sitting position as he covered his bleeding face with his hand. He looked up at John who stood bouncing on his toes like a boxer. "You got me right in the nose," Sherlock said in a muffled voice. Then he muttered to himself,"I guess you don't love me anymore."

John looked down at Sherlock who pouted up at him with a hurt expression. He sighed and lowered his arms. "Sorry," John said reaching out to offer Sherlock his hand. Sherlock grabbed John's forearm and placing a foot in the middle of John's chest rolled over backwards tossing him so that he crashed into a stack of cardboard boxes. The boxes collapsed with a loud noise, and paper trash fell out onto John's head as he slowly rolled over and picked himself up.

Sherlock also rose to his feet. One hand still pressed firmly to his nose to stop the bleeding. They stood for a moment looking at each other. Then Sherlock spoke, "So, have you had enough? Are you ready to concede that I'm the master here?"

John's answer was to narrow his eyes and bare his teeth into a tight half grin. The same expression that he had worn in the serial suicides case when Sherlock had confronted him and he had admitted to killing the cabbie. Sherlock took a step back.

John rushed forward and grabbed Sherlock's waist again. This time Sherlock was ready for it. He braced his legs pressing back against John and grabbing his arms so that they they pushed against each other like titans wrestling. Sherlock bent forward towering over John. It seemed for a moment that he would succeed in pushing him back when John lifted his head suddenly bashing Sherlock's nose with the back of his head.

Sherlock staggered back three paces covering his nose with both hands. It had started to bleed again.

John's grin became fierce and he rushed forward pushing Sherlock against the wall of the alley and punching him repeatedly in the abdomen with five short hard upper cuts before hands grabbed his arms and dragged him back. Someone had called the police.

John's hands were brought behind his back and placed into handcuffs. Only then did he notice the lights sending shafts of red across the alley. Sherlock was also led away, but he held a handkerchief which he used to mop up the blood flowing from his nose.

Forty minutes later Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was glaring through the bars of the jail cell, his arms crossed, a wicked smile on his face. "So this is how you communicate?" he said, "I much prefer marriage counseling."

"Lestrade?" Sherlock said, "Let us out of here. We're not prosecuting each other, so there's no one to charge us."

"And there you're wrong," Lestrade said, "Fighting on the street like common ruffians? You were disturbing the peace! Now you Sherlock can go, but John here...this is not his first offense, we're going to have to hold him till morning. "

You mean that John has to stay here?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," Lestrade said, "Until morning."

"He's not drunk," Sherlock countered.

"Hey, I don't make the rules," Lestrade said unlocking the door to let Sherlock out. John resignedly sat on the edge of the metal bench.

"I'm staying," Sherlock said.

"What?" Lestrade said surprised.

"If John can't leave, I'll stay here with him."

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. Go home," John said.

Sherlock turned toward him, "I'm not going, not without you."

"Well, if that's the way that you want it," Lestrade said closing the door on the two of them with a click. "Have a good night boys." He walked out chuckling to himself.

Sherlock moved to the other side of the cell, and sat across from John. They glanced past each other trying not to stare, but there was nothing else in the cell to do. Sherlock's coat and phone had been taken, as had John's.

John looked around the empty cell and said, "I question the logic of putting two people who were fighting each other in the same cell."

"Do you plan to attack me?" Sherlock asked.

John laughed once, "No. Probably not," he said.

They continued to not look at each other. The silence growing in the room until they found themselves unconsciously, uncontrollably staring into each other's eyes. John smiled and then lay back in his bunk.

"John," Sherlock began, "Lestrade told me that you used to get into fights."

John chuckled raising his hand to his head to shield his eyes from the light. "Is this a question?" he asked.

"I don't remember you getting into fights when we first lived together."

"We fought all the time. Remember The Gollum?" John replied.

"I mean, outside of our work," Sherlock said.

"Well there wasn't really much outside of our work back then was there?" John said, "We were always busy. "

"And before, when you were younger?"

John rolled up and sat, putting his feet back onto the floor as he looked at Sherlock, "You never cared about my life before I met you. You never asked. Why the new interest?"

"Because I want to know," Sherlock said with quiet intensity, "Because I _need_ to know about what's happening to you now."

"Sherlock, I'm a grown man, I..." Then he shook his head and lay back down on the bunk. "Time will pass faster, Sherlock, if we just go to sleep."

"You can't move out, John," Sherlock insisted.

"Why not?"

"Because you don't want to leave."

John smiled, "I don't?"

"I know that you don't. Your medical books. That stack of them that you keep in your room. You should be putting them in boxes, but you haven't bought any boxes."

"Just haven't gotten around to it."

"Your favorite Chinese noodle place is around the corner from Baker street. You don't want to miss that."

"I'll eat there when I come to visit you," John said, "I told you before, I have every right to move if I want to."

"I'm not saying you don't have a right to move," Sherlock said, "I'm saying that ... I don't want you to move."

John turned his head toward Sherlock. "_You_ don't want me to move," he repeated.

"No John. I...want you... to stay."

John looked into Sherlock's eyes. His mouth open, his eyes wide. Then he pushed his lips together and a frown started to build on his face, "Why? Why do you want me to stay?"

"Because..." Sherlock said as he rocked forward on the edge of his seat clasping his hands, "life's just no fun without you."

John smiled a brief smile, then his face became cold. "Nice, nice Sherlock. I'm glad that you think so."

Sherlock looked at John's clenched fists and the furrows on his brow. "Why does this anger you?" he asked, "I thought that you would want to hear that I value your company."

John closed his eyes and turned away from Sherlock. Blowing out a breath loudly as he lay back down on the bench.

"You are angry with me, " Sherlock said to John's reclining figure.

"What makes you think that?" John said turning his face back toward Sherlock.

"I can tell by the way you clench your teeth, that and my bruised ribs, not to mention my nose."

John smiled. "I keep telling you, that I killed people for a living."

"Yes John, so you keep saying. I've always wanted to ask you, how many people have you killed?"

"I don't remember," he said.

"Liar," Sherlock replied.

"Good night, Sherlock," John said before rolling over to sleep.


	9. Daedelus

It was dark outside the window of Lestrade's office when John and Sherlock were ushered in. Inspector Lestrade sat behind the table, a cold, half-filled cup of coffee sat on his desk next to a stack of photographs. The uniformed officer closed the door as he left.

"Sit down," Lestrade said motioning to the chairs.

John sat but Sherlock continued to stand. "I thought that John wasn't to be released until morning. It isn't morning yet, so why are we here?"

"I need you," Lestrade said, "so the lesson in public citizenship will have to wait."

"What's the problem?" John asked.

"We're working on a very sensitive project. You know about the human rights trial going on this week."

"Human rights?" Sherlock asked obviously unaware.

"Yes, of course," John said.

"I haven't heard of it," Sherlock said.

"It's been in the papers for weeks! On the front page no less," John said exasperated.

"I read the obituaries, the want ads, and the crime reports. All the rest is inconsequential," Sherlock replied.

John rolled his eyes, as Lestrade explained, "African country, General defected. He's testifying against the dictator there. We've got him in the highest security imaginable, but some of his evidence was in a suitcase and ..."

"It's been stolen," Sherlock finished for him.

"The car that it was in, was stolen," Lestrade clarified, "Our evidence suggests that it was a local job. It was probably just a coincidence that _that_ car was stolen, but we need that evidence back and soon. It's only a matter of time before the assassins sent after the general find it and destroy it."

"I don't understand. What can we do?" John asked.

"The homeless network," Sherlock said, "I can spread the word, see if anyone's seen the car."

"Exactly," Lestrade said, "Can you do it?"

"How long has the suitcase been missing?"

"About two hours," Lestrade said.

"You should have called us earlier. Give me a description of the case and the car and where it was last seen."

"It's all here," Lestrade said pulling a folder off of the desk and handing it to Sherlock. "Any leads that you can give us would be appreciated, and it might help some very oppressed people as well."

"Irrelevant," Sherlock said taking the folder. "Let's go, John."

John stood. "Greg," he said reaching out to shake the inspector's hand before leaving, "Thank you."

The two of them walked out of New Scotland Yard together. Sherlock hailed a cab and they climbed in. "I've got a few places to stop, then we can try Riverside," Sherlock said.

"Try whatever you want, Sherlock, I'm going home," John said leaning forward to give the driver the address of their flat on Baker street. The cab pulled away.

"Home?" Sherlock said, "but aren't you going to help me on this case?"

"I have work tomorrow," John said, "After work, I'll be happy to run around London with you, but you don't need me for this part. It's just slipping twenty pound notes in pockets. I'll be better for a good night's sleep."

"Will you? Sleep, I mean." Sherlock asked concerned.

John became quiet, his hand clenching and unclenching on his lap. Then a gentle smile crossed his face. "I haven't had one. After that night, I haven't had any nightmares," John said, "I expect that tonight I'll sleep just fine."

The cab pulled up outside of 221B, and John climbed out. Sherlock remained inside. John stood for a moment holding open the cab door. "When do you expect to come home?" he asked.

"Not until morning," Sherlock replied, "unless we find it before then."

"Ah well, then good night," John said closing the door. He turned and unlocked the front door turning back to look once before entering the flat. The cab drove away.

When Sherlock returned in the morning, John had already left for work. Sherlock took a shower and then came into the living room laying his phone on the table as he waited for a call. Sherlock picked up John's book of myths, and lying down on the couch he began to read.

That evening, John came home to an empty flat. He had just sat down to rest when his phone rang. "Hello," John said.

"John!" Sherlock called, "I have a lead. Meet me at this address in ten minutes, it's near the flat so you can walk."

"But Sherlock?" John began. Sherlock had already cut the connection. John sighed, pushed himself up and put on his coat.

John watched as Sherlock exchanged a word with a bearded man in a coat so old that any color it had once had was worn to grey. He walked back toward John wiping his hand with his handkerchief. "What is it?" John asked.

"The plates were changed, but it's the same car," Sherlock said, " It's parked just a few blocks away. Come along." Sherlock rushed ahead his coat streaming behind him. John followed. As they approached the car, it started to drive away. Sherlock ran out into the street, and took a picture with his phone. His thumbs flew across the keys as he sent the image to Lestrade.

"Do you think that those are the assassins?" John asked as they watched the car drive to the end of the street.

"No," Sherlock replied. "They would have taken the case and left the car. Also they would probably have shot at us. Look, they turned right!" Sherlock said, "There's construction. We can catch them if we run."

"But Lestrade can..." John said to Sherlock's retreating back. He rushed after him.

Sherlock ran through alley after alley before pulling down a fire escape and climbing to the top of a building. John followed as Sherlock ran, jumping from rooftop to rooftop, with John some paces behind. As Sherlock leaped, a tile slid beneath him so that he fell short plunging down into a darkened alley. He just barely caught the edge of the other roof with one hand, his feet flailing as he dangled from one arm over the fall.

"Sherlock!" John yelled rushing ahead and jumping across to the other roof. He slid to his knees, lying flat on his stomach and snaking his arm over the edge as he reached down to grab Sherlock's wrist. John dragged Sherlock up, pulling with all his might until they fell on the graveled rooftop side by side breathing heavily, arms locked in John's visor-like grip.

"John, John, you can let go now," Sherlock said looking into John's face which had gone white as a sheet. Sherlock pried his hand away finger by finger.

"John, what you did there...thank you," Sherlock said sitting on the rough rooftop. John was breathing heavily. His face a mask of horror. Then he turned away from Sherlock, covering his face with his hands.

Sherlock rose to his knees and crawled over to John. "You aren't still mad are you?" Sherlock asked to his back. He tried to look into his face, but John turned away again. "John," Sherlock said, "John." Sherlock reached out and pulled down John's hand to reveal a face streaked with tears.

John looked up at Sherlock, his eyes red, wet tracks covering his cheeks. He turned his face away. "I didn't want you to see me like this," John said, "A grown man crying like a child."

"John," Sherlock asked, "What's wrong?"

John rubbed his eyes with his palms and laughed bitterly, "Who would believe that I was a soldier or a doctor even when I keep breaking down like this?"

Sherlock reached out his hand, wanting to touch John's face, but he pulled it back, folding his hands together instead. "What's wrong John?" he asked, "Are you hurt?"

John laughed. "Am_ I _hurt?" he said, "Sherlock, you almost fell to your death, for real this time. It was a miracle that you were able to catch that ledge and hold on. Weren't you even the least bit afraid?"

"Why should I have been?" Sherlock asked, "I knew that you would save me."

John covered his mouth again. "Oh God," he said, "save you...that's what I wanted to do. All those times. I wanted to save you. I wanted to fly. I thought, that you had lost faith in me...then you say something like that."

John took his hands away from his face and looked up at Sherlock. He was smiling, and new streaks marked his cheeks, "You really are amazing," he said, "Sometimes you are callous and selfish and act as if you have no heart, and other times you say things that make me think that you are as innocent as a child. I can't tell you how glad I am that you're back."

Sherlock crawled over and sat beside John. "Can I ask you a question then?" Sherlock said earnestly.

"What do you want to know?" John asked.

"Why are you really moving?"

John stood up looking across the empty rooftops at the city surrounding them. He said, "It's complicated."

Sherlock rose, and stood beside him. Just then Sherlock's phone beeped. He looked down, "Lestrade has the car. They found the case intact. That's solved. Should we talk about this over dinner?"

"No," John said walking across the roof and sitting on a raised vent cover. "I'd rather talk here. The breeze is nice, and I won't be ready to jump anywhere for at least fifteen minutes."

Sherlock sat on the vent beside John, their shoulders touching. John glanced away from Sherlock as he talked. "A doctor, especially a surgeon, has to learn to be detached about their work. Sometimes you can save someone, sometimes you can't. You can't take it personally or the emotions will kill you. I've had a man die under my hand, and I just went on to the next person. I don't even remember his name. That's how it's supposed to be. The ability to stay detached emotionally is an essential skill for a battlefield surgeon. It's something that_ you _do naturally, Sherlock, perhaps a little too well. I was able to do it too, until...until you fell.

"You see, when I think of you getting hurt or dying. I'm terrified. I can't control myself. Ever since you came back, I've had uncontrollable mood swings. Sometimes, like now, I'm so terribly afraid, and then I'm ecstatic that you're alright. It's too much. It seems that I can't be detached around you."

"You're not detached. What does that mean, that you're attached?" Sherlock asked.

John looked up at the cloud covered sky. "Living with you again. It's brought out all these emotions that I had learned to repress. It's taken months for me to come to some kind of peace with your death, and now you are alive..." John smiled and cried at the same time. "When something like this happens, when I almost lose you again, I realize how impossible it would be for me... to be without you."

"But John, I'm here. If you feel this way, why do you want to move away?"

"I told you that it was complicated," John said.

Sherlock turned so that his knee touched John's. "Explain. Explain to me how moving out makes any kind of logical sense."

John brushed his fingers through his hair and looked into Sherlock's eyes. He stared back at the tear streaks drying on John's face. "I'm like Icarus," John said, "If I fly too close to you, my wings melt and I fall into the sea." John turned his face away. "But also like him, if I'm completely without you, I get depressed, and that's no good either. Tears are salt water after all.

"I need to find the middle ground... like Daedelus. That's the only way to survive this thing that I'm going through."

"And the middle ground is moving to another flat?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," John said. "I'll do what I've been doing, what helps me to cope, and occasionally I'll come over and help with a case or two. Take the middle path, until I learn how to be more detached about you."

"What if you never feel detached," Sherlock asked, "What if you get emotional whenever something bad happens to me?"

"Then, I guess I'll just have to stay away," John said.

"No!" Sherlock said his voice cracking. "No, you can't. What kind of life can you have playing it safe all the time? You and I, we live for danger, John. We aren't meant to be mediocre. We are supposed to soar." Sherlock took John's hand in his. "Moriarty meant to separate us. Are you going to let him win? Why have I been working and fighting for the last year and a half if not to be with you again?"

For a moment, John looked won over. His face was filled with a look of hope, and then he pulled his hand away. "I feel good now," he said, "but I'll feel differently by the time we get back to the flat. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I can't go on like this."

John stood and stepped away from Sherlock causing that side of his body to suddenly chill. " We had better go now," John said, "Lestrade will call soon." John began looking around the roof for an exit. He found a door just as Sherlock's phone rang.

"No, we're not home now," Sherlock told Lestrade, "Call me tomorrow," he said turning just in time to see the door slam closed behind John.


	10. Discovery

The next few days John and Sherlock treated each other with awkward politeness. John moved around the flat quietly, sharing meals in silence and rising with a muttered, "excuse me". Around John, Sherlock felt as if he was walking on eggshells, wanting so much to continue the conversation, but unwilling to start because he could not think of anything new to say. But John had work, and Sherlock was going through his old case files, or he was trying to. He found John's declarations weighing heavily on his mind.

Now that John had pointed it out to him, Sherlock could see how John's actions of the last few months could be explained by mood swings. The dangerous anger that John had felt in the bank when the robber had pointed a gun at him. Smiles followed by a bloody nose in the alley. Even the labored breathing that had led John to excuse himself when they had talked in this room about trust.

He could see how a man like John, who prided himself on his self control, could be upset by overly strong emotions. In that way, John was a bit like himself. Sherlock had a strong distrust of emotions. Before John, he had found his own ways to avoid them, but given John's views on drugs, Sherlock didn't think that he would agree to simply medicate the feelings away. And if Sherlock was to be honest, he wouldn't want to see John that way. He had become accustomed to John's pleasure at simple things like tea and toast, and even those awful shows on the telly.

But John's logic, something had to be wrong with it. Moving was not the correct answer. Sherlock knew instinctively that moving would not change John's feelings. Although, disturbingly, he could not explain how he knew it. If he wanted John to stay, he would have to solve the problem that John had posed:

_"Make me not feel."_

Sherlock sat in his chair, pulled his knees to his chest, and began to think.

When Sherlock was a child, he had faced the same problem. Other children had looked at him with dislike, and he had felt sad. Sometimes the feelings had almost overwhelmed him. He begged to be allowed not to go to school, but his parents did not agree. He would have to learn to face people sooner or later. "_A Holmes lives in the real world"_, Father had said as he carted him off to another year at boarding school. He had to find his peace however he could.

Mycroft had offered his solution. _"Don't trust them. Don't seek their approval. Don't care about them."_ He pretended to be like them, but in the back of his mind, he imagined that they weren't real. They were just pieces on a chess board. They didn't feel. They didn't require our concern for their welfare except on an abstract level. Sherlock had never agreed with Mycroft's philosophy. He found it too cold and largely inaccurate.

The truth was that the Holmes family had never lived in the _real world_. They created the world that they wanted around them. And although he had tried to do the same, when it came to dealing with others, Sherlock Holmes was a dismal failure. That is, until he met John.

In his youth, all of his feeble attempts at forming emotional connections had failed. Ultimately, he had resolved that such things were beyond him. Once he had divorced himself from his desire for acceptance, he had pursued intellectual challenge. Science was nice, but it was just something that he did for fun. In truth Sherlock dreaded the tedious repetitive precision required to fully document and prove a hypothesis. He did quick, but thorough experiments and wrote them up as monographs without going through a formal review or presenting at conferences. In science, he was only a dedicated dabbler.

But even as a youth, crime had fascinated him. Carl Powers' murder being his first. Despite all of the trouble that it had caused, Sherlock was glad to have met Moriarty. Glad because he had given him a chance to solve the first mystery that had frustrated him so long ago. The mystery that had paved the way for his subsequent fame and fall.

In that sense, he and Moriarty had been the same. Both loved knowing things. Sherlock remembered on the rooftop how upset Moriarty had been when he thought that there was something that he didn't know. _"What did I miss?"_ he had asked. Desperate to know the answer, like a crow seeking to retrieve a piece of bread dropped through a metal grating. Neither of them could stand _not knowing_.

Sherlock had thought that this was what made him special, his drive to know, and yet what had it given Moriarty except a hopeless fatality? His need to find the answer to existence had led to his suicide. Perhaps in the end he had sought the answer to what happened to the intellect after death.

But Moriarty's death had answered another question for Sherlock. It had told him what it was like to die without friends. Sherlock had traveled the world in search of people who knew Moriarty. Some of them had admired his intellect, some of them had coveted his power, some had been fascinated with his dangerous personality, but none of them had been his friend. When he was gone, they forgot him in search of their own interests, or in pursuit of others to take his place.

But Sherlock had a friend, and John had missed Sherlock. In his travels, Sherlock had known that no matter where in the world he went, no matter what he did, that he had a home to go to, and it wasn't this flat. His home was John.

Sherlock looked up realizing as he glanced at the clock that he had been thinking for hours. It had seemed only minutes since he had sat down, but his legs were stiff, so he stood and shook them out, looking around the room for him. Sherlock hadn't found an answer for John's problem, but he had clarified his own. That a life of pure intellect was a cold life without a friend to share it with.

The door opened and John came in wearing his coat and carrying a shopping bag containing milk and tea. "Ah, you're finally up," he said.

Sherlock looked at John, his friend. He knew now that they were meant to stay together. He needed to tell him. If he could only find the words, "John," he said "I..." Then his phone rang.

Sherlock ignored it. "John..."

"Aren't you going to answer that?" John asked.

Sherlock clicked the button angrily, "What do you want, Lestrade?" he said.

Lestrade replied in a clipped tone. "I need you both NOW. I'm texting the address."

"Do we have a case?" John asked.

"...Yes, we have a case. Let's go." Sherlock replied sighing as he walked across the room to get his coat.


	11. The General

They entered an unmarked door in the back of a hotel, and were stopped by two armed security guards who started to search them before Donovan arrived and waved the guards away. She led Sherlock and John through another door and past two more check points before ushering them into a carpeted hallway containing Detective Inspector Lestrade. "At last!", he said nodding to Donovan who left closing the door behind them.

Sherlock strode down the hall to stand before the inspector, "We're here. What was so sensitive that you couldn't send a text?" Sherlock asked.

"Do you remember that general that I was telling you about. This is where we were keeping him," Lestrade said.

"Were keeping him?" John asked, "Is he missing?"

"No, It's worse than that," Lestrade said opening the door of the suite to reveal a richly furnished room with a green carpet and gold chairs. On the carpet lay a body, "He's dead."

John walked over to the body and put a hand to his neck.

"How long?" Sherlock asked.

"Less than an hour," Lestrade replied. "We've been keeping it quiet in the hopes that we can discover the culprits before they flee the area. I don't believe that the person who did this would leave before they were certain that they had succeeded."

John looked up, "Well, they _have_ succeeded. He's definitely dead. His fingernails and lips suggest Oxygen deficiency. This man asphyxiated. He was probably poisoned."

"That shouldn't have been possible. That's what's got us so worried." Lestrade motioned to a man huddled in the corner of the room. "This was the general's personal aide. He ate and drank everything that the general did, and yet he is fine. He called us as soon as the general was starting to feel sick, but it was too late."

Sherlock walked over to the thin black man who sat slumped in a chair, his face a mask of sadness. The man looked up at Sherlock who asked, "What was the last thing that he touched?"

Pulling himself to his feet with some effort, the man walked over to the table where he pointed at two glasses .

John was still on the floor examining the body. "Sherlock," he said, "his breath, there's a smell...what is it? Almonds perhaps?"

Sherlock put on his black gloves, picked up first one glass and then the other and smelled them. "Yes, the smell of bitter almonds, cyanide. In one glass but not the other. "

"If it has a smell, wouldn't he have noticed it?" Lestrade asked.

"Not necessarily." Sherlock said placing the glasses carefully back in place, "Not everyone can smell cyanide. It is a genetic trait. Fortunately it is one that both John and I share." Sherlock turned to the aide and asked, "Where did these glasses come from?"

The aide pointed. "That shelf there," he said, "But I washed them out myself, by hand, with soap. If there was anything on the glass, I should have cleaned it off. Also, only one glass was poisoned, how would they know which glass I would give to the general?"

Sherlock walked to the bar. He turned on the water and smelled it catching a drop on the end of his glove. He held it under his nose, and then tasted it.

"Sherlock have a care!" John said, "We are talking about poison."

Sherlock went to the cabinet then and picked up each glass in turn, smelling it. Then he returned to the aid who stood staring down at the body of the general, visibly rattled. John stood, and placed a hand on his arm leading him back to his chair. The man sat pulling his legs and arms into himself as he blinked away tears.

Sherlock turned slowly around scanning the room before looking down at the man. "Explain to me exactly what you did before the General died," he said.

The General's aide looked up at Sherlock and then glanced at the body before saying, "The international court accepted his evidence today, and they decided to take sanctions against the government. We were hoping for more, but this is very good news. He says to me, "Let's have a Vodka to celebrate?" The man paused, his face a contorting in pain.

"Go on" Sherlock said.

"I walked over and took two glasses from the shelf. I rinsed them in the sink, and then wiped them with that towel. I poured in the vodka, and then served it. A few minutes later..." he looked down at the body.

Sherlock rushed over to the sink and picked up the dish towel sniffing it. "Nothing," he said dropping it back on the counter before examining the bottle of vodka. He smelled it, then he poured a tiny bit of vodka onto a saucer. He dug under the sink taking out a small bottle of ammonia. He poured the ammonia into the dish with the vodka but there was no reaction.

"What are you doing?" John asked.

"Testing for cyanide in the vodka." Sherlock said as he carefully poured vodka from the general's glass into another plate to which he added ammonia. It bubbled and turned black. Sherlock smiled and slipped the ammonia bottle into his pocket. "Hydrogen cyanide polymerizes spontaneously at room temperature in the presence of ammonia. Hydrogen cyanide is one of the fastest working poisons."

"But how did it get here?" Lestrade asked. "This room has the highest security we could devise. The food was shipped in weeks ago to await the general's arrival. Every carton was checked. No one knew which safe house he would be held in. And Frederick here ate and drank exactly the same things as the general. "

Sherlock knelt down beside Fredrick so that he looked into his eyes."I need you to tell me _exactly_ what was said," Sherlock insisted.

The man closed his eyes visibly shaken. When he looked up into Sherlock's face, his eyes were red. He began, "I said, '_Sanctions won't help M'baye escape to the West_.' He said, _'Even so, it is a good thing. It is also good that you are here with me'. _" The man paused, " He said, '_You have been my rock, and I couldn't do it without you. I love you more than any brother._' and I said, _'I love you too_.' then he said, '_Let's have a vodka to celebrate_.' I washed the glasses. '_Make mine on the rocks,_' he said '_and do you know when dinner will arrive because.._.' "

"Stop!" Sherlock said his eyes open wide in an expression of revelation. He ran over to the counter and opened the ice bucket sniffing it.

"The ice!" John said nodding.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, "the ice."

"But why didn't the ice in your glass kill you?" Lestrade asked Fredrick.

"I don't take any," he said.

"Where does this ice come from?" Sherlock asked looking around the room.

"Someone just brought it when we asked," Fredrick said to Sherlock's retreating back.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock called as he strode toward the door, "Show me."

"This way," Lestrade said as he led them down the hallway and into another corridor to enter a small kitchen.

"The general's food is prepared here," he said.

Sherlock opened the refrigerator looking at the ice. He put a cube on the table and tested it. "It's in this ice as well."

"Then one of the cooks or possibly someone who moved the food in must have poisoned it," John said.

"I can't believe that," Lestrade said, "Everyone's background was double checked, triple checked. It's impossible that one of them did it."

"Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever is left, however improbable must be the truth," Sherlock said as he started to push the refrigerator aside. "John, help me with this, will you please?"

Sherlock and John pulled the refrigerator away from the wall. Sherlock found the tube leading to the ice maker, and traced it across the wall to a faucet that it passed over to exit the room through a small hole in wall. Sherlock pulled on the tube loosening small bits of plaster. He dug around the crack with his finger looking through the hole at another room.

"What's on the other side of this room?" Sherlock asked.

"Uh, I don't know." Lestrade replied. "a restaurant I think."

"That's where the cyanide came from. That must be where the assassins are. Come John, If we're fast enough, we might catch them!"

Lestrade sighed heavily as they ran past him. "At least wait for back up, will ya?" he yelled at them, but they had already gone.


	12. Fire fight

John and Sherlock peered around the brick wall at the back door of the restaurant. It was empty except for a flickering yellow light and a couple of rubbish bins.

"We need to find that room to prove my hypothesis before they have a chance to dispose of the evidence."

"How do you dispose of that much Hydrogen Cyanide?" John asked, "Let's hope they don't just pour it down the drain."

Sherlock bent down and stood on his toes as he peered at the roof of the building. "This restaurant runs all along the side of the hotel. The room should be about fifteen meters from that wall."

"How do we get in?" John asked.

Sherlock grinned at John and then strode toward the door. "I guess I'll just have to use my charm," he said.

"What charm?" John replied running behind Sherlock. "So much for waiting for backup."

Sherlock rang the doorbell. A man's dark face appeared through the cracked door. "Yes?" he said.

"Hi!" Sherlock said grinning, "We are from just down the way, and we were wondering if we could borrow a cup of milk." John rolled his eyes.

"Go away!" the man said starting to close the door. John stepped forward then and kicked the door in sending the man sprawling to the floor. Sherlock and John rushed in. Sherlock reached for the man, but he scrambled up and ran into another room before Sherlock could catch him.

"My plan could have worked," Sherlock said peering after the man before taking another path toward where he imagined the room must be. Sherlock and John ran down a hallway and through a door. They disturbed a large group of women sitting at tables and drinking tea.

"Pardon me," John said as they passed through the surprised group only to turn and run when a group of men with guns came through a doorway.

"Run Sherlock!" John said as the men leveled their guns. The women screamed, rising from the tables and forming a distraction that allowed them to escape through a pair of swinging doors into the kitchen.

Sherlock reached up and slid a bolt across locking the door just as a body pounded against it. They ran past the surprised kitchen staff and rushed down a side hall. There were several rooms on either side. Most were pantries or storage closets. Sherlock took a moment to get his bearings, and then he turned off to the right going into a room. He passed several tall metal shelves and reached out to open a door. He shook the handle. "It should be in here, but the door is locked," Sherlock said "John, your gun."

"I didn't bring it."

"You didn't bring it? Why not!" Sherlock cried.

"I just got off of a charge of homicide, not to mention the jail time for fighting, do you think that I'd parade my gun in front of Lestrade after that? Why didn't you bring it?"

"You're the crack shot, not me," Sherlock said searching the room and finding that there was no exit other than the way that they had come.

There was the sound of a door slamming open and voice said, "You, search the rooms down there, they can't have gone far."

John and Sherlock crouched down behind a washing machine listening to the hallway, "Why didn't you close the door?" Sherlock whispered.

"There is no door!" John hissed back.

Footsteps ran down the hallway, and they pressed their backs up against the metal side of the washing machine. When the sounds faded Sherlock stood. "Sherlock!" John whispered, but he was back in a moment holding a bottle of champagne. He worked the foil wrapping and the metal cage off of the bottle with his long fingers. John glared at him. "Sherlock, do you seriously think that now is the time for celebrating?" John asked as he watched Sherlock toss away the metal wire.

"If we make a loud sound," Sherlock said, "They may think that we are armed."

"That's your plan?" John asked mockingly.

Sherlock glared back at him. "If you had brought your gun we wouldn't have had this problem. At least this will give me more time to come up with a way to get us out of here, unless you have a better plan."

John shook his head.

Just then they heard the sound of someone entering the room. Sherlock put his finger over his mouth, but John was already stock still, all of his senses concentrated on the footsteps that they heard approaching across the room.

Sherlock lined his thumbs up on either side of the champagne cork as a man with a gun turned to look at where the two of them were concealed. He pushed and the cork exploded out of the bottle hitting the man between the eyes. His mouth opened in shock and he fell back onto the ground. John rushed forward taking the gun from the floor where the man had dropped it. Then he put a pair of fingers on the man's neck.

"He's unconscious, let's pull him out of sight." Sherlock and John dragged the man into the corner and covered him with a tablecloth before resuming their place behind the washer.

John was peering out past the edge to get a good look at the door when he suddenly pushed to the side squeezing against Sherlock in the small space as a rain of bullets ricocheted off of the wall behind them.

John pressed his back against the machine holding the gun in both hands, "Now we're in trouble," he said. John slid out from behind his cover and shot once before hiding again as another few shots rained in.

"How many of them?" Sherlock asked careful to keep himself low.

"I only saw two," John said, "But I counted eight in the banquet hall. Seven if you don't count sleeping beauty there." John peered around the corner and took a shot. There was a cry. "Six now," he said.

John stepped out again only to throw himself back into the hiding space as gunshots whizzed past his head. He made a harsh grunt and fell against the side of the washer sliding to his knees and grabbing his right arm with his left hand. Sherlock could see blood spilling through his fingers.

"John!" Sherlock cried, "You've been shot!"

John laughed, "Get a grip, Sherlock, it's just a flesh wound," he said and pointed to a stack of cloth napkins. Sherlock reached out and grabbed some wadding a napkin up and pressing it against John's arm. It filled with blood too quickly. Sherlock looked around panicked. "John," he said again.

"Get another one to tie it," he said, and Sherlock did, wrapping the napkin around it on the diagonal and pulling tight, "Christ Sherlock, it's not a tourniquet," John said, and Sherlock loosened it as another few bullets bounced off of the back wall.

"You're going to have to take the gun, Sherlock," John said, "Pretty soon they'll notice that we aren't firing back and come in here.

Sherlock took the gun looking into John's eyes, "Are you alright?"

"Later." John said," We need to find better cover. Some place where we can see the door." John nodded to some metal shelves full of tins of olive oil. Sherlock jumped out and shot twice so that the attackers hid behind the door frame, as they ran across. In the new place, they were concealed but they could clearly see the door through the cracks.

"Get into a kneeling position pointed at that door," John said.

"A what?" Sherlock asked holding the gun in one hand.

John sighed and grabbed Sherlock's shoulders. "Here, come sit in front of me, I'll guide you," he said.

Sherlock knelt down in front of John, his gun arm extended in both hands as John looked over his shoulder. Sherlock aimed at the doorway, John's lips near his ear. "Lean forward Sherlock. Look down, you shouldn't see your toes."

"I'm not supposed to look down, I'm supposed to ..."

"Now!" John said and Sherlock pulled the trigger sending a shot through the open doorway. The man trying to enter jumped back into the hallway.

"What the hell were you aiming at?" John asked.

"You didn't tell me to aim," Sherlock said.

"Next time someone comes in, aim for their leg."

"Their leg?"

"I would say go for the shoulder, but with your bad aim, you'd hit them in the heart."

"Are you insulting my shooting ability?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," John said. "Keep your arms up!"

"This gun is heavy," Sherlock whined.

"Don't be a wimp. Fire!" Sherlock shot twice, the second shot hitting the man in the leg. He fell and pulled himself out of the line of sight. Sherlock smiled turning his head toward John.

"Eyes forward, Sherlock," John ordered and Sherlock turned back around to face the door.

"You'll be more stable if you sit on your foot. Just lean back against me." Sherlock sat down on his foot, his arm still outstretched. "Place your elbow on your knee, yes. You'll be more stable now."

There was movement in the hallway as they readied themselves for another volley.

"Where's Lestrade?" Sherlock said. "He should be here by now."

John laughed again. "I guess we shouldn't have rushed ahead then."

"Don't blame me," Sherlock said, "You're the one who kicked the door in."

Another bullet whizzed by their head making them both jump. Sherlock let out another two rounds before John stopped him with a touch to his side. Sherlock sat on one foot with his arms outstretched. His right arm was balanced on his knee as he knelt pressed against John who sat behind him holding his bloody arm, a tight grin on his face.

"We'll run out of bullets soon," John said.

"John," Sherlock said, "On a scale of one to five, how would you rate your feelings of contentment right now?"

John widened his eyes, "Sherlock, we are stuck in a laundry with the only way out blocked. I'm bleeding, and we're being shot at."

"I know, but you like this, don't you?" Sherlock asked, "This is the thing that you were missing when I was away right, danger? Is that why you would get into so many fights? Because you missed this?"

"Can you focus, Sherlock. Someone is trying to kill us."

"Yes, and you are the happiest that I've seen you in weeks."

"This is the police!" A voice called out," Put down your weapons and come out with your hands in the air."

John smiled. "Now I'm happy," he said, "But don't drop your guard."

The sound of even more bullets flying by caused Sherlock and John to fall to the floor. They heard the sound of a tear gas grenade rolling down the hallway.

"Great, just great!" John said crawling on his hands and knees toward the stack of linens.

Screams echoed through the building as Sherlock and John cautiously crawled through the hallway dishtowels covering their mouths. They exited to bright lights and police in riot garb.

Sherlock put his hands up after tossing the gun to the ground, and John put up his hand. "It's me!" Sherlock yelled, "Don't shoot!"

Smoke was still billowing out from the doorway, so they didn't notice as a man rushed up behind Sherlock and put an arm around his neck pulling him back forcefully as he placed a gun to his temple.

"Guns down," the man said choking Sherlock a little to get him to stop struggling. John was about two meters away. He turned to face the gunman, and stood very still.

"I want a car with the keys in in parked right here in front of me in two minutes or I shoot!" The man said.

Sherlock caught John's eye. In the chaos of the lights and smoke and sirens, it seemed that everything became silent and faded away until there was only he and John. Sherlock nodded to John who nodded back at him and then he dropped buckling his knees so that he fell straight down toward the ground. The weight of his fall pulled the gunman forward so that he lost his balance. In that moment, John took three large steps forward and with his left arm struck the man's wrist so that the gun flew wide. It fired into the air. Sherlock was on the ground now. He kicked the man's legs out from under him holding on tight to the arm that had been around his throat and twisting it around the man's back.

John slammed the man's head against the concrete and put his knee between the man's shoulder blades pinning him to the ground as he wrestled the gun from his hand with his one good arm.

A few moments later, policemen rushed up and leveled the guns on the fallen man taking him away into custody. John and Sherlock smiled at each other and John was taken to an ambulance.

Later, after the building was cleared of assassins, Sherlock reentered the restaurant. An officer snapped off the lock with a cutter and they found in the room a water bucket full of hydrogen cyanide confirming Sherlock's hypothesis. As the detectives took samples and pictures, Sherlock excused himself. He walked across the alley to find John sitting in the back of an ambulance having his arm properly bandaged.

"That bullet tore a hole in my favorite coat," John said.

"I'll buy you another one," Sherlock replied hands in his pocket.

"Do you understand the concept, favorite?" John asked. Sherlock smiled, and then John did.

Lestrade walked up to them and berated them, "What in God's name did you think that you were doing storming that restaurant alone? I told you to wait for backup."

"Sorry," John said and the total inadequacy of the reply sent Sherlock and John into hysterics of laughter. Lestrade shook his head and walked off.

John jumped off the back of the van and the two of them walked off side by side.

"Dinner?" Sherlock asked.

"I just want to get home and get some rest before the pain medication wears off."

Sherlock hailed a taxi, and they rode home.


	13. Homecoming

The next morning John and Sherlock sat across from each other in the living room. John was in tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt because his right arm was in a sling which made belts difficult for him. Sherlock was wearing a dressing gown over his clothes as he read the morning paper.

"Here you are again," Sherlock said, "Bank Hero apprehends African General's Assassins. Good God! It rhymes! As if the alliteration wasn't bad enough. Reading this article, you'd think that you caught them all single-handedly."

John chucked, "Jealous?" he said.

"Hardly," Sherlock replied folding the paper and tossing it carelessly onto the floor. John was pecking at the keys of his laptop with one hand. "Are you writing this in your blog?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course," he said, "It's a fantastic story. I've already had a dozen posts requesting it."

"Are you able to type that...I mean, with one hand?"

"Are you volunteering to type it for me?"

"No," Sherlock said leaning forward in his chair, "I just wanted to know ... are you sure that you're not hurt?"

"Don't worry. I told you that the wound was superficial. It'll be mostly healed in a week."

"John," Sherlock said rising from his chair.

"Yes?" John said stopping his typing to look up at Sherlock who was biting his lip nervously. John put aside his laptop and sat back to give him his full attention, "Yes, what do you want to talk about?"

"Do you remember when we were on the roof, what you said about Icarus?" Sherlock asked, "About how you can't be detached about me. About how when I am hurt you get so emotional that you don't know if you can survive it?"

John pushed himself up to his feet and ran his hand through his hair, "Yeah, well, it's kind of embarrassing when you say it like that, but it reminds me. I've been thinking about things, and I think that I might have been a bit rash deciding to move out so suddenly. I mean, there's the Work, and with this arm in a sling, it would really help to have you around, so I was wondering if it would be alright for me to... not move yet. I'd like to stay for a while. See how things go, if that's okay with you. It _is_ okay with you isn't it, Sherlock?"

"What? Yes, it's okay. Definitely it is okay to stay, yes, Of course," Sherlock answered.

"But I interrupted you," John apologized. "What were you going to say?"

Sherlock opened his mouth and then closed it standing stiffly as John looked questioningly into his eyes. John laughed, "I rarely see you at a loss for words. I guess you forgot. Oh well," John said and began to turn back to his chair, but Sherlock reached out and touched his shoulder.

"John," he said, "I just wanted to tell you that ... when it comes to your safety, I'm like Icarus too."

John turned to face him, "What was that?" he asked.

"When you were shot, I realized that... If something were to happen to you..." Sherlock's face contorted into an expression of distress. John reached out with his good arm, and Sherlock clasped it with his. Then John pulled Sherlock close to his chest, his sling pressed between them and Sherlock lowered his head until their foreheads touched. Sherlock closed his eyes.

They stayed this way for several breaths, and then Sherlock opened his eyes to see John smiling at him. He smiled back, and then John pulled his hand out of Sherlock's grasp and gave him a rough pat on the shoulder before lowering himself back into his chair and resuming his typing.

Sherlock grinned widely and then dropped down into his chair as the door opened downstairs. He steepled his hands listening to the sounds below. "Mrs Hudson has been at the bakery again," he said, "I wonder if she bought those pastries that I like."

"You could go down and ask her," John said without looking up.

"Too tired," Sherlock said stretching out his legs and slouching down in his chair, "You do it."

John looked up from the keyboard, "I'm the invalid here, remember?" he said.

"I'm so bored!" Sherlock groaned.

"Now things really are back to normal," John said chuckling as Mrs Hudson slowly walked up the stairs.


	14. Coda

Sherlock dragged the cardboard box out of the corner and lifted it to the top of the stack of moving boxes. He brushed away a layer of dust from the surface, making a small cloud that floated across the mostly empty room. There were rows of boxes up against the wall waiting for the removers to come. Some were going to his new home in the country, some old equipment such as his microscope had been donated to a school, and some papers and supplies to a museum of crime. The proprietor of said museum was an acknowledged fan of his work. She had come to the flat and marveled over the entire room asking to take photographs and begging for donations for an exhibit that she had planned. Some of his more memorable pieces had already been sent to her such as Moran's gun, Moriarty's pocket knife, and even his old deerstalker hat. He was now labeling the last of the boxes, his old case files. These had been wedged in the corner beside the bookcase for so long that he had almost forgotten them, but now that all of his books were gone, they had been exposed. He had already decided to take them to the country with him, but he was checking the boxes physical integrity to see if they would stay intact for the trip.

Two twenty one B Baker street had been his home for so long that it was almost a part of himself. When he closed his eyes, his mind palace had the same layout as this flat, with the burning fireplace and the skull on the mantle, and of course the two chairs, one for him and one for John. In the decades that they had lived here, the flat had always looked this way. With the loud wallpaper, the writing desk, the curtains on the window, a couch, and two comfortable chairs. They had changed the chairs a few times over the years, but they were always in the same place. So much so that they had worn dents into the rug. Evidence that even someone without his miraculous powers of observation could see.

Curiosity overtook him, and he opened the box to reveal a plethora of paper file folders filled with newspaper clippings. He pulled out one and read the title, "Bank Hero apprehends African General's Assassins." One side of Sherlock's mouth twitched up into a smile. He pulled out the file and sat down on the rug, opening it to get a clearer view.

He stared at the fading photo. It showed John standing on the steps of the courthouse. Sherlock stood behind, gazing at him with an expression that he knew was one of fondness, but very few other people would recognize it as that. Mycroft would, and of course John.

There was a noise on the landing and Sherlock turned to see John enter. His hair was completely white now, not the dirty blond tending to brown that it had been in his youth. He still liked it cut short above his ears. He had more wrinkles now, but his features were still pleasingly symmetric. He tilted his head and put a hand on his hip. "Sherlock, we are never going to get moved if you keep stopping to read things. Are we even going to be able to fit this into our new house? It's not much more than a cabin after all."

"John, come look at this."

John gave a brief sigh, and then walked across the room to stand behind Sherlock. He placed his hands on his shoulders and looked down at the page. "Why that was a long time ago. Look how young we were," he said, "And there you are in your coat. Do you remember? You used to wear that coat everywhere. I could always find you in a crowd."

"Well, It was a good coat."

"I remember that case. It was _The Case of the Poisoned General_. I got a lot of complements for that story. It still gets hits you know, even though its in archive. There's this college professor in Leeds who uses it for an assignment in his introductory criminal science class. Those were the days, weren't they? Now we're just old fossils good for nothing but writing our memoirs and tooling about in the countryside."

"Oh come now, John," Sherlock said patting John's hand with his own, "We're not quite done yet. We are just taking a long deserved rest."

"You bet it's deserved," John said, "Sometimes I think that you are personally responsible for catching half of the criminals in the London jails."

"Hardly John," Sherlock said, "And if I remember correctly, in this case, you were the hero of the day. You got shot apprehending the assassins?"

"Did I?"

"You can't remember getting shot?"

"It's not like it was the first time...or the last."

"I never liked it when you got hurt. I told you so then. Now that I think about it, that was when I first told you. You were going to move out, and you got shot and decided to stay."

"Oh yes," John said a thoughtful expression crossing his face, "I remember. I was so confused back then, and so stupid about emotions. A prisoner to my own feelings about what a man could say and what he couldn't. I guess that happens to everyone when they are young. They are so rooted in the world that they grew up in, in what other people expect them to do. Of what they expected their own life would look like, that they can't admit to the feelings that they have, even when it's so obvious to everyone else. We get so trapped by morals, by customs, and by labels. Boxed in by them, or should I say tied up in other's expectations like a Victorian woman tied in a corset. Feeling that if the straps were ever loosened, we'd collapse and die. I was so stiff back then. So narrow in my thoughts. It's hard to believe now."

"Do you remember who it was? Which of them shot you?"

"Not really, Sherlock, does it matter? You can't still be upset about that."

"I'm not upset. I wanted to thank the man."

"Thank him, why?"

"Because if you hadn't got shot then, you might have left before I would have worked up the courage to ask you to stay. Luckily, your inability to open your own marmalade jars made me at least marginally useful to you."

John laughed taking a moment to ruffle Sherlock's grey curls. "So that's why I stay with you," he said, "your amazing domestic skills. I knew there had to be some reason. Well, mark that box for the study, and we can sit around the fire and discuss old times to our heart's content." John leaned over and kissed Sherlock on the top of the head. "Come on now. I've already called for a car. Sussex awaits." He patted Sherlock's shoulder and started to walk away, but Sherlock reached out and grabbed his arm. John turned back to face him. He looked down to see the irises in Sherlock's eyes contract to grey.

"I was just wondering what would have happened if you had left me then? Or worse still, what would my life have been like if I had never met you? Simply imagining it...it's disturbing. Who would I be? What kind of person would I have become without you? I was so selfish then. So detached from the world around me. You called me a robot once. You were right. That's what I was. I wouldn't admit to feeling anything, to needing anything from anyone else. If I had never met you, John. What kind of a man would I be now?"

"A dead man, probably. Killed by that cabby's poison pill. But even if you survived that, you were such a reckless git you'd have found some other way to get yourself killed. Heck, sometimes I thought that I might kill you myself."

"You're probably right, although not about the pill." Sherlock said, "I know I chose the correct one." John snorted. "But it was so hard for me then between cases. I could easily have overdosed on cocaine."

"Or died of lung cancer from your awful smoking habit. Thank goodness I cured you of that."

"Yes you did, and you made me eat, and take care of myself. The only reason I've lived this long is because of you."

"Damn right, and you had better keep on living. You're not going to stiff me with paying the taxes on that farm by myself." Sherlock chuckled and rose to his feet. He turned to John whose face had gone suddenly serious. "I probably wouldn't have lived to be this age either," he said, "I was so alone before I met you."

Sherlock reached out and squeezed John's hand. "So was I," he said, "and even when I knew that I would only be happy with you by my side, I still found it hard to say it to you. Why do you suppose that was John?"

"Because you're an idiot," John said and they both started laughing. They laughed so hard that John had to lean over with his hands on his thighs. Sherlock wiped a tear from his eye. Miriam Hudson walked into the room then. Her short brown hair and tight purple body suit reminding them of her great aunt who had given her the place. She smiled, "You two, I swear you act just like children sometimes. The car is here. Are you ready to go?"

Sherlock looked around the room where they had spent so much of their lives. Where he had taken cases and discovered leads. The window that had once exploded from a bomb, and had been shattered by a sniper's bullet. The kitchen that had housed his experiments, and his accidents, and his mornings of toast and coffee with John.

He ran his hand across the mantle. The mirror and the skull having long since been packed away, and turned back to face John and Miriam who stood in the doorway. There were so many memories here, good and bad, but mostly good, because the day that he had moved into this flat, John had moved in as well.

His eyes focused on John who stood in the doorway with his hands behind his back as if he were at parade rest. Sherlock remembered then what he had learned that day, right before they had taken the case with the African general. The thing that would make it easy to hug little Miriam goodbye and walk out of the door for the last time. That this flat wasn't his home anymore than that cabin in Sussex was. For Sherlock, now and forever, his only home was John.


End file.
